Reluctantly Mrs Darcy
by FeliceB
Summary: As suggested in the title of Jane Austen's original work, Darcy's greatest failing is pride. His passionate love for Elizabeth only mitigates this character flaw, resulting in the awful proposal at Hunsford. If happenstance forced Darcy to marry Elizabeth before he loved her, or even knew her at all, would he ever be able to get past his pride to recognise his fortune?
1. Prologue

First Act Prologue  
The wedding day –

Longbourn chapel had never looked more inviting. Despite the season, the sun shone bright, seeming to bless the upcoming union, bathing the small church in warm merry tones, and drawing the eye to the explosions of flowers situated at the end of each pew. Roses, gardenias, violets and even a few delicate orchids, no fashionable blossom was absent. Where Mrs. Bennet had procured such a profusion of blooms, at this time of year and upon such short notice, was anyone's guess.

Yet, when your daughter marries a man of £10,000 a year, one must pull out all the stops, lest she feel slighted; even if she is your least favorite child and a headstrong willful girl, all told. But if Mr. Bennet were called to meet his Maker, it would not do for the new Mrs. Darcy to remember the strained state of the mother daughter relationship in recent years. No indeed, better to give her a lavish wedding, so that she carries all the attendant affection of such a triumphant send off into her new state of matrimony.

Mrs. Bennet had neither the sense to see that her relationship with her second eldest daughter was beyond repair - and perhaps had been irretrievable before the girl had even reached adulthood - nor the insight into Elizabeth's character to recognize that fripperies and trim meant less than nothing to her.

As was generally expected, Kitty and Lydia were making a spectacle of themselves. Could anyone remember an event where they had not stirred themselves to make a spectacle of some sort? They sat alternately giggling behind their gloved hands and then shoving each other in disagreement over who had rights to their dear departing sister's fine yellow armchair, while a stern Mary looked on in consternation, emitting indelicate huffs.

Mrs. Hurst sat absently playing with her pearl bracelet, her perpetually bored husband on one side and a much subdued Miss Bingley on the other. In fact Miss Bingley looked quite ill. Her normally clear catlike eyes were red rimmed and her complexion was a mottled mixture of shades, none of them becoming. And yet how could she be otherwise, when the man whom she had held such high hopes for stood at the altar waiting for another? More to the point, he was not waiting for the paragon of society, the princess of the ton, with connections as handsome as her fortune – the type of lady he was expected to marry. Bitter though it would have been, Miss Bingley could have conceded defeat to such a match. But _her_ Mr. Darcy was marrying a nobody, a country miss with no fortune, no connections and no beauty. With a family uncouth in the extreme thrown into the bargain.

To be supplanted by the likes of a Bennet was galling. _Why, just look at those two hoydens, to think that they would be welcomed to Pemberley as family!_ thought an otherwise still Caroline, clenching and unclenching her fists, without a care for her elegant kid skin gloves. Well there was nothing to be done, the wedding could not be halted at this late stage but she hardened her resolve. Her impressionable brother would not also succumb to the schemes of the Bennet family; devil take her if she was going to call that artful chit Elizabeth 'sister'.

The various other players in the little county drama were much as anticipated.

Seated just behind the Bennets, a jovial Sir William Lucas could be heard explaining to a young breathless Maria Lucas that upon her marriage, her good friend and neighbour would soon be presented at court. Further along the pew an enigmatic Miss Charlotte Lucas solemnly watched yet another girl, many years her junior, precede her into matrimony.

Bingley standing up for his long-time friend was wearing an eager smile, oblivious the emotional undertones of those around him. Of course his attention was consumed entirely by Jane Bennet, angel like, framed in a beam of sunshine on the far side of the altar. She blushed faintly under his admiring gaze, only adding more to her beauty. Last it was an ashen Mr. Bennet, who led his favorite daughter slowly up the aisle and handed her over to the waiting groom with a palpable air of resignation and sadness.

However what was not expected would be Elizabeth Bennet shuffling toward her future husband with her gaze stubbornly trained upon the tiled floor, her lovely dark eyes filled with unshed tears. Indeed with her pale complexion and stooped little shoulders she was as far removed from the notion of the customary blushing bride as could be.

All things considered, it may have been just as well not to look at her marriage partner. For Mr. Darcy likewise could in no way be described as the customary eager groom, his expression, far from showing warmth and love, was a study of barely restrained fury.

Yes, the overriding emotion Fitzwilliam Lawrence Darcy felt on this day, the day of his wedding, was anger. Anger at the parson who was about to tie him indelibly to this little adventuress; anger at her vulgar fortune hunting mother who had no doubt engineered the whole situation; anger for the strictures of society that left him no other option but to take such an unsuitable bride and elevate her to mistress of Pemberley; anger at himself for being careless enough to allow this business to pass. But the lion's share of his anger was directed at the feminine figure standing across from him - her traitorous eyes downcast even at her moment of triumph.

Even as these thoughts roiled around his confused mind Darcy made a conscious effort to mask his expression, to school it into indifference, if he could not counterfeit happiness. He relaxed his jaw, imperceptibly rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. To stem the tide of gossip and prevent scandal from reaching London, inscrutability was the order of the day.

 _Think of Georgiana_ , he reminded himself. Naïve she may be, but a sweet girl at heart, Georgiana deserved the opportunity to discover felicity in marriage. He would not do anything to jeopardize _her_ happiness; he would not even denounce this upstart fortune hunter. His grim ruminations almost made him miss the parson's cue, at a gentle prompting cough from Bingley, he choked out the words: 'I will,' with unmistakable tang of bitterness. So much for concealing his emotions.

A brief flash of dark eyes filled with surprise did nothing to quell his temper. _Did she fear that I would not go through with it?_ No, she should know that she had chosen her prey with impeccable precision - his sense of honor irrevocably engaged; he could not back out now and still hope to call himself a gentleman.

"WILT thou Elizabeth Grace Bennet have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

'I will,' she quietly acknowledged, looking not at him, but shooting a gaze filled with sadness at her nearby elder sister.

An involuntary hiss escaped through his teeth. She would stand there blithely playing the victim! It was she who in her despicable greed had ruined all his plans and dashed his hopes of making a match of affection. Most of society would have scoffed at the thought. But beneath his stern exterior the Master of Pemberley harboured an unfashionably romanticized view of matrimony. It was not spoken of, particularly with his Fitzwilliam relations, but he had long hoped, nay expected, to emulate his parents' close relationship.

Unlike his peers, Fitzwilliam Darcy had grown up in a warm and loving household. The young master was not confined to the nursery, relegated to the care of servants and only trotted out for the customary viewing of the 'heir' at formal gatherings. On the contrary, from the time he could walk he was included in family life.

Defying convention, the Darcy's shared meals with their toddler son in Pemberley's private dining room, after which the family would eschew formality to settle down in front of a warm fire and discuss their day, play board games, read stories or simply do whatever took their fancy. Often the young master would fall asleep listening to the low rumble of his father's voice and the answering tittering laugh of his mother, basking in the gentle glow of familial affection. Thereon George Darcy himself, never a servant, would carry his son above stairs and tuck him into his bed. It was an unorthodox upbringing to be sure, but part of the legacy of the Darcy family. Love in marriage seemed as natural as breathing to young Darcy.

He spent the first season on the Marriage Mart anticipating the fairytale; he would see an elegant lady from across the room, procure a dance and be dazzled by her kindness, intelligence and gentle beauty. A whirlwind courtship would follow, for who would refuse such a well favoured and well connected suitor? He would quickly make her his wife and fill Pemberley with dark haired, handsome children. Gain a helpmeet to ease his many duties and a companion to fill his lonely hours. It was not so much a dream as the simple plan for his future days.

Despite his aversion to large gatherings he remained steady to his purpose, making a point of accepting a wide range of invitations to dinners, house parties, musicales and even dreaded balls. And his efforts were, on the face of it, rewarded: he received introductions to a great many beautiful and eligible young debutantes. They had the right family, the proper connections, the requisite accomplishments and handsome dowries. Most were pretty enough and a few were uncommonly beautiful but, once introduced, they all followed the same tedious pattern.

Each conversation held a decidedly rehearsed air. Topics introduced by the lady at hand eventually lead to what made her uniquely qualified to be the mistress of Pemberley. Accomplishments couched as interests, connections casually dropped into conversation upwards of a dozen times, and if she could obliquely allude to her sizable dowry all the better. Although delivered in the practiced London ennui, he could sense their feverish excitement; their eyes glittered with predatory zeal.

As he stood in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London, a thousand covetous eyes crawled over him: rival debutantes, eager fathers, cautious brothers and of course matchmaking mothers; all waiting in the wings, keenly searching for any sign of interest, ready to pounce. And yet they saw only the future master of Pemberley and the accompanying wealth and status, not the man, the young man ready to love and be loved.

Even when Darcy valiantly attempted to bridge the gap, to share some of his more private passions and interests in order to break through the drawing room dance of polite nothings and forge a deeper connection, the ladies gave nothing of themselves. When he deliberately strayed from the well trodden paths of exchange to ask the deeply personal questions truly pertinent to the selection of a life partner, blank stares and nervous titters were his only reward. And of his own disclosures, they were listened to with only half an ear; as though his character was nothing more than a high stakes game, as if they could take the cards of his soul, play them shrewdly and dupe him into matrimony.

After his first complete season no one lady stood out from the crowd, indeed he would have struggled to tell one lady from the next: they were just so appallingly uniform. It was as if they had a formula for catching a rich husband, he mused, _laugh at everything he says, tilt your face up to look at him, pout as often as you can, sweetly, yes very sweetly, criticise every unattached female within a one mile radius, agree with everything he says, no matter how nonsensical, oh and for heaven's sake never reveal anything personal: if he knows nothing about you he cannot conceive a disgust of you._

On the few occasions the veil did fall, it was far from pretty. In unguarded moments, when one could glimpse through the sweet docility, he would catch a mercenary glint, the smiles would take on an edge of pitiless calculation.

At first their affectations could be viewed with a measure of amusement. They were full young after all, like gambolling little kittens. Disappointing? Yes. But dangerous? No. He could even feel sorry for them: taught to play these games, pruned from a young age like hedges into these patterns of high society, so very eager to please but constitutionally unable to engage him.  
However as time marched on, the sameness of it all began to grate. Near to the close of his first season he experienced his first near compromise. It was clumsily done and easily foiled, Darcy could even find it within himself to be grateful for the ham-fisted lady and her ill-conceived plan as it had put him on his guard, ready to frustrate much more elaborate traps in his future, set by some he had even thought to trust.

As the years passed without finding a suitable candidate, a sense of unease grew. Was he asking too much? Surely there must be some lady in the _Ton_ who possessed the qualities he required for the benefit of his estate, family name and own yearnings. Or was the _Haut Ton_ a stagnant pool where he would find nothing but these manicured, artificial specimens of womanhood?

He began to seek the warmth of affection he had expected to garner from a wife in the seductive half-light of the _demi-monde_. Never willing to suffer the ignominy inherent in patronising a brothel, like a common sailor, he indulged in a few discreet dalliances and eventually took a more permanent mistress. It was undeniably wrong, immoral and yet completely intoxicating. Colour seeped back into his days and his nights became a haze of sensual pleasure.

His courtesan of choice, Celeste Toussaint, was a vision of loveliness: luscious auburn curls against porcelain skin, a sultry build with the strange combination of impossibly long elegant limbs yet with an ample pert bosom. Her large grey eyes dominated her heart shaped face, which was finished with a perfectly bow shaped pair of dusky pink lips. Bedding her was certainly no hardship, but what had attracted Darcy were those grey eyes: they held a guileless quality at odds with her profession as a Cyprian of the highest order. When he was alone with her, limbs entangled after their lovemaking, he could lower his guard.

An excellent conversationalist, Celeste was as clever as she was beautiful. Darcy found her to be well informed on the arts and some literature; although for a woman born in a Country that had long been at war with England, she cultivated a shocking ignorance of politics: "Wars! Those already wealthy wish to be obscenely wealthy, so they stir up trouble, then a few years later a new batch takes their wealth by force. It is all the same and all so very tedious," she would complain, turning her head coquettishly.

Darcy's social exploits, on the other hand, were a constant source of amusement, and thus a frequent theme in their post-coital chatter. Celeste delighted in the ridiculous and would often request, nay demand, he recount the antics of his trail of hungry debutantes. "Oh my poor Fitzwilliam, harried on all fronts by petticoat mercenaries! If only they knew you prefer an argument to agreement, lively debate over submissive adoration, you would be caught inside a month, but I will keep your secrets if you keep me in your heart," she would purr, nuzzling his neck.

Away from her company Darcy could not help but feel some guilt over the arrangement; he knew it flew in the face of all that he had been taught, that his father, a man of sterling character and strong morals, would never have approved. But the relationship was his sanctuary, where he could indulge in his romantic sensibilities and exercise his sensual nature.

Regular interludes with Celeste allowed Darcy to approach society events calmer and more detached, buffered against the punishing circus known as the London Marriage Market.

It was at this time that the tone of pursuit altered in an altogether alarming fashion. The legend of the elusive Fitzwilliam Darcy had been escalating along with the desperation of the ladies who had foolishly refused other eligible offers to hold out for the prize of Pemberley. Perchance rumours of his taking a mistress had also played no small part.

When the established wisdom was that Darcy was on the hunt for a wife and would elevate one lady or another, a certain level of restraint was exercised; lest an over eager manoeuvre push him into the path of a rival. But a man with a mistress may have no need of a wife for years to come, may regard as a wife as a nuisance even. Thus the accepted mode of eager mothers introducing their hopeful daughters to him and stepping back to allow nature take its course was past.

The increasingly aggressive possessiveness of the most disingenuous young ladies, their mothers and occasionally their marriage minded fathers turned expectation to suspicion and vexation to resentment.

Games, arts and allurements became an unceasing menace. At balls and parties he found himself surrounded by flinty eyed misses, many of whom stood much too close and used any excuse to brush against his person. Of the more genteel ladies who tried to pierce his group of circling vultures were cruelly put in their place by his coterie of harpies.

Moreover any statement that resembled praise (even remotely) set families to crowing of their daughter's attachment to the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, making the normally quiet gentleman increasingly tight-lipped. And if he happened to stand up with a lady more than once in a month he could be sure half of London was speculating on a wedding date.

In a cruel stroke, the haven he believed he had found in the _demi-monde_ , proved to be nothing more than another trap, another pattern card for a female: a femme-fatal.

It wanted but a month, and he would be celebrating the one year anniversary of his relationship with Celeste. On a short visit to tend his northern estates Darcy found an antique rose gold bracelet, perfect to mark the occasion. Eager to see Celeste, he deferred his requisite trip to Rosings and returned to town to present the gift, albeit a month early.

When he arrived at the small but luxurious house he had let for her in Chelsea, he expected to be welcomed with open arms. He was instead treated to a cold dose of reality.

The front door stood wide open, and a number of _strange_ men were loading trunks onto a _strange_ carriage. Darcy sauntered into the hall, though a sinking feeling in his gut made it hard to feign insouciance. At the bottom of the stairs he found Celeste tugging gloves over her long elegant fingers. She looked at him with a carefree smile, temporarily allaying his fears. "Going somewhere?" He said leaning in for a casual kiss, she placed her hands on his arms and leaned away with a flick of her hair, deftly avoiding contact with his eager lips. At his questioning glance she gave a little shrug and without a hint of shame, or indeed any emotion, went on to explain that their arrangement had come to an end; she had received another offer, a better offer, and that she wished him the best.

When he said that he thought she loved him, her blithe reply was: "Of course I loved you, I was paid to love you, now I will be paid more to love someone else. _Adieu_."

It was a blow, to be sure, and the staff at Darcy house spent the next week treading carefully around their unusually moody master.

The spell was broken by a visit from the ever affable yet shrewd Captain Fitzwilliam. He propped his boots out in front of him in Darcy's generous study, after dining at his cousin's equally generous table, "So do you want to talk about it?"

"I'd rather not," was his cousin's terse reply. Richard Fitzwilliam slowly swirled the brandy around his glass, surveying the deep amber colour. He took a sip, a gentle sigh signalling his approval of the fine vintage. "You will feel better once you do," he said taking a larger draft of the smooth liquid, now looking casually into the fire.

With a grudging nod Darcy admitted "You are no doubt right, but I will need a few more brandies first". And talk he did: at first it was just the bald unadorned facts, but as the liquor disappeared so did his reserve.

"The betrayal was the hardest to stomach. If she had been honest in her dealings, if any of the woman I have to deal with had but an ounce of honesty…." Opening his long arms in supplication Darcy gave a dejected shrug.

Rather than sympathy, Richard Fitzwilliam gave a hollow laugh that gathered strength and volume the longer he considered his cousin's naiveté. "The fantasy of true love is what you paid for; you cannot expect the affection of a bought woman to be enduring and deep." He sauntered over to refill his glass, holding it up to the light again before regarding his cousin, "You have come out of this remarkably unscathed: your reputation unharmed, your coffers full and your hide in one piece!"

Darcy raised a dark brow in query; his cousin shrugged "Some of my fellow officers have learnt the hard way to beware patriotic French lightskirts. Why don't you take a break, old man?" he queried, resting an elbow on his chair. "Not just from London, but from this damnable search of yours. Go take in some sport. And if you come across another chit, simply enjoy a lady for the sheer pleasure of her company, nothing more."

The next morning Fitzwilliam Darcy had a ringing monster of a headache but he had also gained some perspective on the affair. He had come very close to losing his head: maybe he had even unwittingly crossed the line between gratification and true love. From this point he would have to be more guarded when it came to the undeserving of the opposite sex. It was a painful lesson and more were to follow.

The pain inflicted by those long standing friends he esteemed, and had thought esteemed him in return; for his person rather than his wealth or status as a sought after Bachelor proved to be an ever greater disappointment.

After the rather curt dismissal at the hands of his mistress Darcy did not have the heart to see out the season, preferring to lick his wounds ensconced in the safety of Pemberley. But before he could depart London he received an invite to a small hunting party on his friend's estate: as it turned out he was not to be the hunter but the prey.

Arthur Frederick Osbourne had two 'eligible' sisters eager to become the next Mrs. Darcy and a new wife equally eager to see them settled; and the responsibility of someone other than herself.

Eloise Osbourne, a veteran of four London seasons at nearly two and twenty, was not disposed to let such a worthy suitor pass her by. When all her ladylike attempts to gain the attention of her brother's illustrious guest failed, she resolved to stage a compromise. Luckily Darcy had the loyalty of a most discreet, if somewhat protective, valet. Upon discovering the scantily clad Miss lying in wait for his master, in his own bedchamber no less, the man gave her a tongue lashing that sent her fleeing back to her own rooms with a face bathed in crimson.

When confronted with his sister's indiscretion the next morning Arthur's response was as unexpected as it was not to his liking.

"Why not marry the girl, Darcy?" Arthur responded airily, "I daresay you could do much worse, Eloise comes with a handy portion of fifteen thousand and you could get your nursery started. An heir and a spare and all that." Meeting with Darcy's forbidding expression the master of Blake Hall gave a short bark of laughter.

"That is unless you have an eye for little Anne," he continued with a wink. "I'd give them both to you if I could, save me the trouble and expense of another season. But as we live in Mother England, not under the reign of good old King Solomon, you'll have to content yourself with just the one."

"You mean to tell me you would permit, nay encourage me to marry a girl barely 16? You'd deny her a season and wed her to a man 10 years her senior? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

'So take Eliose then, if your scruples demand it, let's drink to matrimony!' He declared, wandering with casual abandon to the brandy decanter, making Darcy suspect his friend was already in his cups notwithstanding of the early hour. "I will not, nor will I impose upon your hospitality another night, since it comes at such a cost. Give my regards to your wife."

Eloise Osbourne was not the last damsel to try to secure Darcy as a husband though underhanded means. Yet forewarned was forearmed: the few men Darcy could still trust became a vanguard when necessity drove him into society. What a sad state of affairs it was, that a man in the prime of life could not safely take the air on a balcony alone or retreat to the quiet sanctuary of a library without some eager female lurking in the shadows, ready to spring the parson's mousetrap.

The attempts were universally thwarted, but the experience made him most guarded in his interactions and attentions. His manners, although well-bred, became increasingly uninviting. Mercenary debutantes, scheming matrons, heartless courtesans and ambitious patriarchs had all taken their toll. His naturally serious demeanour turned haughty and prideful, he found himself frequently looking upon women only to find fault. And his dream of a marriage built upon affection rather than convenience seemed ever out of reach.

 _But even a marriage of convenience would have been welcome in exchange for this farce! No connections, no dowry and what kind of breeding could she boast? Who is this country nobody to be mistress of the greatest estate in Derbyshire, to represent my family in the Ton and devil take her if she thinks to have her vile relations make free with my hospitality either at Pemberley or Darcy House._ Had he known, he perhaps would have been horrified to have his thoughts so closely in step with Caroline Bingley's, but at this very moment his bitterness reigned supreme.

When the parson took her hand and put it in his own it took all of his resolve not to squeeze her fingers, crush them, and make her feel even a hundredth of the pain he was suffering. A long held Darcy legacy and personal dreams disappearing as his lips formed the hated words.

 _"_ _I Fitzwilliam Lawrence Darcy_ take thee _Elizabeth Grace Bennet_ to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, _for POORER_ , in sickness and in health, to _love and to cherish_ , till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

Darcy somehow infused the vows with a hint of disdain. Emphasising the 'poor' section and almost scoffing at the 'love and cherish' as they came from his mouth.

As the Parson rearranged their hands, Darcy's right with Elizabeth's right on top of his own he lowered his brows and directed at Darcy a firm look of consternation and warning.

At the Parson's prompting Miss Elizabeth Bennet lifted her eyes to contemplate her reluctant groom; with a steady gaze, eyes sparkling with defiance, she recited her vows. Slowly and deliberately enunciating the 'for better or worse' section.

After which she dropped his hand as if she had been burnt. But the Parson equally as disinclined to accept nonsense from the Bride, snatched her hand, bringing it back to join with Darcy's own, causing her to narrow her eyes and lift her chin stubbornly. Although the circumstances didn't warrant mirth, his lips twitched, he could not help but be amused at the plight of the beleaguered Parson, forced to contend with a couple determined to behave no better than spiteful children.

In a further childish display, Elizabeth sought to pull back her hand, but like the Parson, Darcy had had enough of antics. Keen to get the whole sorry business over with, he tightened his grip, as his mouth once more formed into a haughty line of displeasure.

He looked directly into his bride's eyes, slipping the plain gold ring over her second finger, somewhat roughly.

"WITH this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

She did not flinch from his burning gaze; in fact her countenance said that if there had not been so many witnesses she would have bitten him. _Ah well, hopefully the little baggage could maintain her display of bravado_ , thought Darcy. In even the face of her earlier aura of grief, he cared not a whit for her happiness: why should he? The whole sorry affair was her own doing. Whatever her regrets, let her conceal them; he had no desire to journey to London confined to the carriage with a watering pot.

As they kneeled to receive their blessing she looked as if she might like to bite the parson as well, so fierce was her expression. But as feared, when they were declared man and wife her shoulders slumped even as she turned her tear filled eyes up towards the ceiling, or perhaps the heavens.  
Darcy watched her take three deep breaths before following the parson over to the pulpit and the open wedding register.

She hesitated, running her thumb across the edge of the page while she held the quill poised, immobile, in her other hand. She looked up at him and Darcy felt suddenly impaled by those dark eyes. Her searching gaze seemed to be reaching right into his very soul, ransacking his hoard of secrets. Irrespective of the searing quality of her regard, he could not look away, for just as she examined his soul the window to her own opened through that earnest look. To think that he had met her but thrice and each occasion he had passed no more than a few minutes in her company, and now he was bound to this stranger till death do they part. In the inky depths of her eyes he could perceive uncertainty, fear and even a hint of curiosity. She tilted her head. The sunlight caught the hint of moisture remaining on her lashes and then abruptly the expression on her face closed like a slamming door, shutting him out, ending that brief moment of connection. She lowered her head with the grace of a striking falcon and swiftly signed her maiden name; _'Elizabeth Grace Bennet'_ for the final time; reluctantly accepting her future as _Mrs Darcy_.


	2. The Last Morning at Longbourn

Chapter 1

Darcy felt like he was walking through a dream, or rather a nightmare. Everything was slightly off kilter, as if he were observing this unexpected detour in his life from the outside: disconnected and out of control, like a passenger in a runaway carriage.

After watching his bride sign her name, he had let out a breath he did not realise he had held. But the new Mrs. Darcy did not even look up; she brushed past him to confer quietly with her sister. The short carriage ride to Longbourn that followed was also conducted in a deafening silence, his wife looking at her gloves, out the window, her feet, anywhere but at him.

Darcy felt himself getting angry all over again, the emotion rose like a fever. His breathing accelerated and he began to tap his fingers in a rapid tattoo against his thigh. _Why won't she look at me?_ Just as he had made up his mind to say something - just a word or two to break the tension - the carriage stopped. She did not even wait for him to exit, or hand her down; rather, she opened the door herself, all but tumbling out of the carriage before bolting for Longbourn. She rapidly hastened past her place in the receiving line. Although Darcy made to follow her, he was too slow; only catching a glimpse of her powder blue coat as she raced up the stairs, het little feet pumping as if the very devil himself was hot on her heels.

Mr. Darcy found himself in the unexpected and uncomfortable position of facing the wedding breakfast, and the tedious denizens of Meryton alone.

He withstood the effusions of Sir William Lucas and some barbed observations from Miss Bingley with as much aplomb as he could muster, but quickly found himself out of humour and with little desire for any company beyond his own. Thus Darcy huddled into a corner of the large drawing room, like a sullen bear, observing the society contained therein, seemingly for no purpose but to re-ignite his banked resentment.

His scornful expression had the benefit of discouraging all but the most intrepid guests from engaging him in conversation, for what was there to be said? Who could, with straight face, congratulate him on acquiring relations whose position in life was so decidedly beneath his own, and with such a total want of propriety? The association was guaranteed to bring nothing of monetary value to the Darcy coffers, but surely a surplus of shame and degradation to the Darcy name. Contact must be kept to the barest minimum, for there was little hope of reform.

He winced at the exuberant tones of Mrs. Bennet: "Yes 10,000 a year. How grand Lizzy will be, what pin money, what jewels and what carriages. Oh I shall go distracted!"

Doing his utmost to repress a shudder of a revulsion, Darcy wandered to the large bay windows; they offered a soothing view of the peaceful, if basic, gardens of Longbourn. What was done could not be undone, but how he hated the thought of acknowledging any connection with Mrs. Bennet!

Watching his mother in law reflected in the glass, he could own that even after bearing five daughters in just seven years she was still in looks. Quite tall, she had a figure that was neither spare, nor running to excess, despite the rigours of child birth. The honey coloured curls spilling from the front of her matron's cap showed few signs of encroaching grey hairs, and for a woman of what must be at least two score, her face was remarkably unlined.

With her widely spaced well opened blue eyes, high cheek bones and full mouth she satisfied every criteria for beauty, and yet any pleasing physical attributes she possessed were soundly offset by her disagreeable personality. Every time she opened her mouth it was to cry out some vulgar statement in a shrill, almost painful voice.

Handsome though she may be, Mrs. Bennet was a woman of mean understanding, little information and uncertain temper. Excepting her sister, Mrs. Phillips, he could safely boast he had never met such a vulgar or silly woman in his life.

The trait he could perhaps forgive the least was her callous disregard for the wellbeing of her children. Many might view her frantic obsession with marrying off her daughters as evidence of a strong maternal affection but Darcy was not so easily taken in. The incident with Jane Bennet riding on horseback to Netherfield in the pouring rain was but one glaring example.

Curling his lip in disgust he remembered that even upon creating what could be a serious illness, Mrs. Bennet could not trouble herself tend to her own daughter, rather it was only a concerned Mr. Bennet who had arrived at Netherfield with Miss Mary in tow to oversee her elder sisters' convalescence.

Mrs. Bennet had declared her dislike of him loudly and frequently, and he had foolishly thought himself safe from her machinations. The tune was vastly altered now he had been forced to take one of her daughters to wife.

Shifting his focus to the music could offer no relief, as the piano forte was occupied by the bookish middle Bennet sister, Miss Mary, whose lack of skill on the instrument was only surpassed by her lack of taste. He subtly rolled his eyes. A dirge? _Of all the things to play at a wedding breakfast._ And yet, the mournful, if poorly played, tune mirrored his sentiments perfectly, for he found himself in no humour to make merry.

The same could not be said of the youngest of his new sisters, Miss Catherine and Miss Lydia. The laughed, flirted, stood indecently close to the few officers present and seemed to let any inane thought that passed through their head erupt from their mouths, seemingly without filter.  
He paid little mind to their utterings, as he had never heard a word of sense from them yet. Although for a second he thought one of them had said _Lieutenant Wickham?_

Why such wild and unruly girls were out in society at all Darcy could not fathom. Well actually, he could. With a mother set on deporting herself in the most indecorous manner possible, she would see nothing wanting in the behaviour of her hoydenish girls, and so did nothing to check them. Mr. Bennet, rather than censuring his daughters as he ought, seemed content to laugh at them and exercise his questionable wit on his own offspring. Often his cheap brand of sardonic humour only drew greater scrutiny to their undeniably scandalous conduct and his own gross deficiencies as their father.  
Darcy resisted the urge to clutch his head in frustration. And they were now his relations! To have his name linked with these… these.. _savages_! Darcy gritted his teeth, making a resolution: once he quit Hertfordshire he would quit it forever. If his wife wished to visit her family she could do it alone. 

The only member of the family whose manners he could not fault would be Miss Jane Bennet. But much to Bingley's disappointment, the serene Miss Bennet had disappeared, ostensibly to assist the bride to prepare for their imminent departure.  
Another fault he could lay at the Bennet door: inefficiency. He mentally cringed to think of such a flighty woman running Pemberley. _I have competent staff,_ he reminded himself _, if she is as disappointing as I anticipate, I will merely continue to have Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Simmons report to me on household matters. The estate has survived without a mistress for nigh on 15 years, it can certainly weather a poor one. But what if she is like her mother? Bringing chaos and disorder into my household?_ Although his face remained fixed in the forbidding Darcy mask, the way his fingers continually and roughly slid his signet ring around and around his finger betrayed his inner agitation. With five fulsome days to prepare, how could she not have her belongings sorted and ready? He ruminated that he could have packed up the entire contents of Longbourn in such a generous span of time.

A short cough brought him out of his reverie and face to face with William Collins, of all people. To say that he was surprised to see Lady Catherine De Bourgh's sycophantic buffoon of a parson would give entirely too much consequence to the fool. Darcy could not have cared less where the man travelled, so long it was as far away from him as possible.

There was something distinctly off about the clergyman. It could not be described, only felt; a crawling sensation when the man was near, a sense of unnatural awareness, wrongness, that put Darcy on his guard.

Ever protective of his young sister, Darcy had refused Aunt Catherine's entreaties to bring her along on each of the last five or more Easter visits to Rosings, nor would he allow his sister an extended stay at his aunt's residence to become better acquainted with their cousin Anne. Extremely vexed though she was, Lady Catherine had not made the connection between the refused invitations and her incumbent. To see him present at his wedding breakfast was yet another vexation in a day already tedious beyond imagining.

"Mr. Darcy, Sir, never would I have expected to be met with such superior society as yourself here in Hertfordshire. Please let me convey my most humble apologies for not greeting you sooner. I had not realised you were in the neighbourhood... nor courting cousin Elizabeth."  
"Mr. Collins – " Interjected Darcy as the man sidled closer.  
"I wish you had applied to me for advice before taking this most precipitous step, Sir." This earned Mr. Collins a forbidding glare from Darcy, for both the interruption and the ridiculous presumption that he would ever go to him for advice. He opened his mouth to deliver a well-deserved set down when the first part of the speech and its implications dawned upon him. _My cousin Elizabeth? His wife was…..  
_ "I have long been an intimate of the Bennets, being my own family; of course I flatter myself to say -"  
"What?!" Interrupted Mr. Darcy, his tone sharp but with an edge of pleading, in the vain hope that he had misheard - a hope that was dispelled as Mr. Collins went on to relate in embarrassing detail his connection with the Bennet family.

Not only was he cousin to the new Mrs. Darcy, but also heir to the family estate, entailed away as it was from the female line. Leaning closer, almost making Darcy choke on the redolent and putrid body odour emanating from the unctuous rector, Mr. Collins hinted that he himself may have been inclined to be even more closely related to the family until - "That is until I had my eyes opened to many virtues of my dear Ellen and indeed the wrongs of a match made in the heat of desire," he added with a deep sigh, whether for the loss of the late Mrs. Collins or for some other regret Darcy could not tell.

Darcy loomed over the flaccid parson. Perchance with a great enough fright he may be persuaded to conceal the connection. Preening under the increased attention and ignorant of the subtle threat, Mr. Collins gave Darcy a sly smirk. Darcy saw him glance towards the stairs and lick his bulbous lower lip.

"Cousin Elizabeth will need a firm hand to be sure, but I would venture to say that the temptation of such a well favoured member of the fairer sex would try even a saint," he continued, giving Darcy a knowing wink and broadening his smile. "No doubt the taming will be as enjoyable as it is long overdue. Such a wild girl, always scampering about the countryside for hours at a time, alone. Most unladylike, if you ask me. Her father has done nothing to check her and instead encourages her in her inappropriate interests." He said tilting his greasy head in the direction of the elderly Bennet Patriarch, before turning back to Darcy.

"Regular applications of a birch rod could have improved her greatly and I could only recommend that you discipline her vigorously. She may well submit to her husband as she ought to have submitted to her family's wishes. As a man of the cloth I must believe there is hope for redemption in all the wayward females of my flock, nevertheless Elizabeth has proven to be a most wilful, disobedient daughter in the time I have known her. Disgraceful the way she insulted me, putting her-"

Here Darcy gave a rough cough, interrupting the escalating spleen of his companion, before saying: "I am all agog with your description of _My Wife -_ Please elaborate, what has she done to offend?" Said Mr. Darcy levelly, looking straight into Mr. Collins beady little eyes. Whatever her faults, and he truly hoped Mr. Collins was exaggerating, he would not demean himself by beating his wife like some barbarian. Darcy tilted his head down and leaned forward ever so slightly, looking down his nose at the shorter Mr. Collins, drawing out the moment, daring the worm to continue at his own peril.

In spite of his own deep aversion to the union, Darcy knew the importance of perpetuating the fiction of a love match, and thus playing the part appropriately.

"Yes, well – err, it was all so very long ago. I'm sure I can't remember" replied a flustered Mr. Collins to both the words and warning implied in the tone.

"Good!" Darcy affirmed, slapping the man on the back harder than was necessary or polite. "A man of your station cannot be too careful, speaking ill of the wives of your betters cannot be good for your… career," said Darcy finishing with a slightly feral smile.

"Oh I'd best see...- that is - my mother in law is requiring my assistance." For all his bulky frame, Mr. Collins beat an impressively hasty retreat to the other side of the room, into the bosom of the numerous members of the Goulding family.

Glad to be alone but impatient to be gone, Darcy took a deep unfettered breath and consulted his pocket watch, wondering again what on earth could be taking the blasted girl so long.

…

The newly minted Mrs. Darcy was not packing but was pitifully curled over a bucket. She'd had no choice but to quickly escape the stifling atmosphere of the carriage, thick with emotions, expectations and disappointment as it was, she'd ran upstairs, convinced that she was on the verge of returning her breakfast. But after a quarter hour of dry heaving she had naught to show for her vigorous efforts. True, she had only nibbled the corner of a piece of toast for breakfast, but she wished she could do something: be terribly sick, break a window, shriek like a mad woman or even just release all the pent up tears she had been holding onto during the past week. But habits formed in the passage of years to protect a girl from the spite of her mother and the upheaval in her life were hard to break. Her tears would not flow, despite the unbearable constricting sensation like iron bands encircling her breast. She sent down the message that she was still packing, although in actual fact her sparse luggage had been ready since dawn.

Giving a deep sigh of resignation Elizabeth took the bucket she had been nursing for the last quarter of an hour to place it on the bright blue washstand. Her small bedchamber, the smallest bedchamber in Longbourn, hardly suitable for a lady of the house, looked especially crowded with her Aunt seated on the bed and her sister watching her sadly from the window. It was a sliver of a room left over from a long ago renovation, probably intended as a dressing room or created for supplementary storage. Its proportions were more than compact: the quarters of the higher placed servants would appear quite spacious in comparison.

In truth it was a punishment inflicted on the second eldest Bennet daughter at the age of just nine that had never been rescinded, and stood as a testament to the dynamics of the family at Longbourn.

What should have been a trivial occurrence, a benign tribute to the oddities of children, or maybe a tale of valour and selfishness that should have become family legend, if not for the underlying dysfunction of the Bennet family unit.

 _Elizabeth's mind floated to that day, so many years ago._

Mrs. Bennet was furious that Elizabeth had once again ruined a new frock. The delightful - and expensive - pink confection had been be worn but thrice and to add insult to injury her bedraggled sopping wet daughter had shown up in the midst of a room filled with dinner guests. Not least among these was Lady Margaret of Netherfield, who Mrs. Bennet felt had always looked down on her.

What a wild daughter, to wander in sopping wet, hair tangled with pond weeds, scattering guests as she charged through the parlour to tug on her mothers sleeve. Mrs. Bennet turned a horrified countenance down to her most exasperating child, now dripping filthy water onto her very best rug. Mrs. Bennet's quick scan of the room alighted on Lady Lucas, sporting a look of barely repressed glee at the unseemly spectacle.

"Elizabeth Grace, get upstairs this instant! How dare you track mud and heavens knows what else into the house!" She boomed.  
"But Mama, I…"  
"Not another word!" the matron hissed making a chopping motion with her hand. "Upstairs this instant!"

Rather than inspiring the desired departure, the admonishment only moved Elizabeth to noisy tears. Most of the guests conspicuously averted their eyes from the display; offended much less by the girl's appearance than Mrs. Bennet's harsh treatment, the exception being the childless Lady Margaret, who often encountered the enchantingly precocious Elizabeth on her rides around the neighbourhood. Lady Margaret's displeasure, written across her countenance, was apparent to Mrs. Bennet, but ignorant that her own behaviour was the source of consternation, she roughly grabbed her daughter's arm, nearly jerking her off her tiny feet, and propelled her towards the doorway.

The now hiccupping and sobbing child was intercepted by Mrs. Hill who discreetly whispered "Why Miss Elizabeth, what's happened?"  
"Tommy fell in the west pond, I got him…. Hic!…. out but he won't wake up," stammered the usually confident Elizabeth before dissolving into more shuddering sobs.

Mrs. Hill's face drained of all colour. In addition to the concern the kindly Mrs. Hill would feel for any child in peril, Tommy happened to be her grandson, her only grandson. Oblivious to the onlookers, her mistress included, Hill picked up her skirts and ran for the door, shouting for her husband to make haste and fetch the apothecary.

Spurred into action, Samuel Lucas charged toward the stables, while Sir William Lucas hurried in the direction of the west pond to see what could be done until his son fetched the apothecary. The few gentlemen present followed in his wake, along with a grim Lady Margaret and an increasingly frantic Elizabeth.

In the resulting commotion, dinner was served more than an hour late, featuring a haunch of venison that was overcooked, unpalatable white soup and custard so lumpy as to be inedible. Mrs. Bennet ought to have taken some comfort in the fact that her table was greatly diminished, with perhaps half of the party attending to the Tommy situation and not partaking of the dreadful food. Though, judging by the audible sniffs and sniggers that greeted each course, it was clear the guest who had remained behind were the most mean spirited, determined to find fault and least inclined to credit any mitigating circumstances.

In Mrs. Bennet's opinion it was unarguably the most mortifying day of her life; and so consumed was she with her own disappointment and humiliation, she had not even asked after the child's wellbeing.

In all fairness, the mistress of the house had spent weeks preparing that dinner to strengthen the Bennet's standing in the neighbourhood, the standing that her indolent husband had allowed to slip while she was consumed with carrying and birthing babies. It had been three years since her last and most difficult lying in. The child, beautiful Anne, had lived only a few days and Mrs. Bennet had shown nary a hint of increasing since then.

The gnawing fear that had grown with each pregnancy that produced useless, if pretty, girl children instead of the long coveted heir had blossomed into panic at this extended period of bareness. All that she had done to rise so high and all the many pregnancies she had endured to secure her position could be for naught. Every time her monthly cycles came, Mrs. Bennet took to her bed with pains in her chest, fluttering of her heart, a dizziness she could not overcome and an uncomfortable sense of loss for the Bennet that would never be, like a task on the edge of her mind but stubbornly refusing to be remembered.

Without any likely chance of producing an heir, a new plan to secure her own future comfort had been hatched. The girls must marry, and marry well; the sooner the better.

Although her eldest daughter Jane at eleven was in no way ready for matrimony, the ground work ought to be laid immediately. The girls must be well versed in the proper feminine accomplishments, and more importantly be schooled in the art of pleasing men. Not prim and proper. No that kind of demeanour favoured nasty old spinsters: her girls must sparkle, while still walking just on the right side of respectability.

As to potential suitors, thought Mrs. Bennet chewing her lip and mulling over the problem one afternoon _, a London season is out of the question; Mr. Bennet has so few acquaintances and none to speak of in town. Moreover he would never be prevailed upon to foot the cost of leasing a townhouse or consent to being removed from his precious library for more than a Sen night! Foolish man!  
Hmmmm, perhaps we could stay with Edward, but who could my brother introduce my girls to?_ _Penniless artists, musicians and a collection of middling tradesman_? _No thank you!_ _Urggh I want lords of the realm! Not lords of the dirty sweaty manufactories!_ _Even if we were to gain entrance to the right events to put the girls in the path of suitable rich men, as soon as they saw the address the whole thing would fall flat, no suitor of any standing will go a calling in Cheapside!_ Mrs. Bennet took a deep breath, raising the embroidery sampler that had been all but forgotten on her lap.

 _That leaves Meryton. Heavens, such a dismally small pool of potential suitors, and of the few eligible bachelors my girls would have little opportunity to engage their interest._ _If only I had been born a lady, I surely could have married much better than the Bennets! I am determined that Jane shall look much higher. She is such a kind and accommodating child, I'm sure she would let me manage many of the household duties. Heavens with such a face, if she develops a figure to match she would perpetually be with child unless her husband is blind.  
It is too soon to tell how Mary and Kitty will turn out, that mousy hair colour does Mary no favours, but if that ash blonde colouring holds, Kitty may be pretty enough. And Lyddy is such a sweet little thing, even prettier than Jane when she was as a baby. She will catch a handsome beau to be sure, but I cannot afford to wait so long to secure __my_ _future._

Mrs. Bennet mentally catalogued her developing assets for any matchmaking venture with the precision of a general. _But Elizabeth, what will I do with that girl! She could ruin everything. She is uncommonly pretty, I will admit, even if she is nothing to Jane. But those saucy speeches, her wild behaviour…. Lord, if I hadn't spent eighteen hours giving birth to the little bluestocking, I could never credit that she was mine. Even if I cannot marry her off I will endeavour to lock her for the sake of her sisters. And the first man who is foolish enough to want her, can have her, even if he has not two pennies to rub together._

 _But all of it will be for naught if I cannot get the girls into the path of rich men, or even eligible gentlemen from the neighbourhood,_ thought Mrs. Bennet continuing to worry her lip raw.

After pondering the problem a few more evenings, she decided that the first step in her matrimonial campaign involved widening the Bennet's social circle, gaining entrance to doors that had hereto been closed to the vulgar daughter of a tradesman who had shamelessly pursued the scholarly Mr. Bennet.

Calls to the local gentry had been made and some few had been returned at Longbourn. Mr. Bennet had been bullied into hosting a shooting party. If the neighbours were surprised at the invite (due to Mr. Bennet's legendary aversion to the activity), the day still ended a resounding success.

Yet the primary event, for this season at least, was to be Mrs. Bennet's dinner party. The guest list included three of the four local families possessing single men of eligible, if not excessive, fortune. The most exalted guest would be the somewhat eccentric yet socially significant Lady Margaret. Granted, the widowed lady had no sons to interest Mrs. Bennet, or indeed offspring of any kind, but as the owner of Netherfield Park and Lady in her own right, she moved in the very circles that Mrs. Bennet hoped to penetrate. If she took a liking to Jane, who could guess what favours were in her power to bestow.

Hereto Lady Margaret had barely acknowledged Mrs. Bennet. As a lady of sense and breeding, what common ground could she find with a woman of Mrs. Bennet's ilk? Nevertheless she was fond of Mr. Bennet, and Longbourn was but three miles away, it would be churlish to refuse. Thus Mrs. Bennet spent weeks in a dither, preparing the house, poring over every detail in minutia, and to Mr. Bennet's dismay, sparing no expense.

Of course Elizabeth could not comprehend the importance of the dinner or the increased pressure on the Bennet matriarch. Nonetheless her age, innocence and undoubtedly heroic act did nothing to ameliorate her mother's temper, nor the subsequent punishment.

"If you cannot conduct yourself as a lady, you shall not be treated as such," scolded Mrs. Bennet about a week after the Tommy episode, while leading Elizabeth roughly by the arm to the small room tucked into the end of the family corridor. "Welcome to your new room," she added with mock generosity and a wide false smile.

Elizabeth took stock of the bleak little space. Her eyes fixed first on the old cot. Despite its modest size, being both narrow and significantly shorter than a modern bed, the dark stain of the timber, the oppressive lines and the height of the bedhead seemed to dominate the whole room, diminishing the already sparse natural light. A feat aided by the wall paper which featured a fussy motif of poorly rendered flowers, in the darkest of hues imposed on an uninspiring brown background. The only other furniture was a rickety washstand with a chipped basin, with such a rough finish that even at its very best it was more suited to a farmhouse than a lady's bedchamber, now it was fit for nothing but firewood.

Even at the tender age of nine, Elizabeth was already a shrewd studier of character, and consequently knew her mother intended the room and the accompanying furniture to be the height of insult. She felt partially to blame for her circumstances. Without knowing the cause, she was acutely aware that her mother's usually unstable temper had been especially volatile since the winter.

That Elizabeth was an enigma to her mother had always been apparent, but of late instead of ignoring the unfathomable or simply throwing her hands up in exasperation, Mrs. Bennet had embarked on a battle of wills with her second eldest child.

Mrs. Bennet, while not a clever woman had quite the stubborn streak. Her motives though unclear were pursued with such energy and persistence that Elizabeth could see no option but retreat.

After days of being harangued on her manifold faults over breakfast, then subjected to in depth lectures on ladylike behaviour in the sitting room and detailed commentary on every which way she was inferior to Jane, Elizabeth felt that she would run mad. Thus in the interests of self-preservation Elizabeth had made herself scarce. Frequently visiting her friend Charlotte at neighbouring Lucas Lodge, or extending her habitually long walks into all day affairs, absconding from the house with a warm roll, apple and a book to find a suitably secluded tree to read in peace until supper time.

When the weather did not permit an outdoors escape, Elizabeth had a bolt hole in her father's book room. Both leather wingback chairs that sat facing her father's desk were infinitely more comfortable than a damp tree branch, and due to their size, they also had the benefit of concealing Elizabeth, should Mrs. Bennet casually peek into the room.

The many months of doing little else than reading ensured that Elizabeth quickly exhausted the books deemed appropriate for a young lady. But as her father raised no objections, or if truth be told, actually encouraged his daughter to become more omnivorous in her reading, she was exposed to a wide range of topics. Elizabeth was a swift reader, so devoured the tomes quickly and as she was intelligent beyond her years, she comprehended nearly all of what she read.

History, plays, philosophy, poetry, medical texts, mathematics, agricultural management, she absorbed it all, and when she expressed a desire to read the classics in their original from, Mr. Bennet was happy to oblige, giving her instruction in Latin and Greek. If she had been a boy she would have been classed a prodigy, but as a girl her aptitude would likely be nothing more than awkward and therefore best concealed.

At the conclusion of one lesson Mr. Bennet added with a wink that while they while they were expanding her language horizons they ought to tackle French as well. "For all the very best novels are in French my dear."  
"If you are trying to turn me into a proper accomplished young lady I'm afraid that horse had already bolted. No man wants to marry a girl who can conjugate Greek verbs," she retorted with a mischievous smile.

"Hmmm perhaps you are right," mused Mr. Bennet out loud, "Oh, well off with you then, out of my library, go paint a table or net a purse, so you can catch yourself a husband."

"I would throw this book at you, if I were not enjoying it so much," she quipped from behind the leather bound biography of Julius Caesar. "In any case what I lack in female attributes, fair Jane more than makes up for. I would wager she'll marry a Lord with a library far exceeding yours." Mr. Bennet laid a hand to his chest in mock heartbreak. "So in return for access to their bounty of books I will teach Janes 10 children to embroider cushions and play their instruments very ill!" She finished with a triumphant hoot.

"You embroider cushions, ha! I daresay you could not complete an embroidery sampler if your life depended on it!"  
She shrieked in light-hearted outrage and threw a nearby cushion at her father. As it happened, the projectile was an earlier example of her atrocious needle work. For all the world, the cover looked as if it depicted a demonic seal straight out one of those dark Norse folk stories, rather than the stag on a river bank she was trying for. As they both dissolved into a fit of laughter that ran long, Mr. Bennet reflected on his daughter's words and could not keep bead of alarm from forming within his heart. _Will there ever be a man who would appreciate such a jewel as my daughter and can she ever discover him in a sleepy little village like Meryton?_ But true to form Mr. Bennet pushed the nagging doubt to the back of his mind in favour of escaping into the written word.

In the end Elizabeth did gain a good grounding in French as well as Italian from her time with Mr. Bennet, and her grasp of classic languages far exceeded that of most university educated men by the tender age of fifteen. She eschewed any study of German, claiming that the harsh language had no music she could discern, and furtively confided that whenever she read in German it was her mother's voice she heard in her head, and thus could not like it. Mr. Bennet far from reprimanding his daughter laughed, saying that with her tall stature, blond hair and generally intimidating demeanour Mrs. Bennet was a veritable Valkyrie.

The time together fostered a real bond between Mr. Bennet and his precocious daughter. He revelled in both her analytical mind and her sharp wit. Her romantic sensibilities were a source of gentle amusement, reminding him of himself before the world, and a union of strangers, made him more wary, if not outright cynical of the idea of love.

Brining her awareness back to her current predicament, young Elizabeth wandered past the dark bed in her new room. Yes she ought to have stayed out of her Mother's way, but she could not repent of her actions. The punishment was great, but it had truly been a matter of life and death. As she reached the sash window and peered out, she repressed a quick smile. _Well at least escaping my prison will be easy,_ she mused to herself, looking at the branches of the ancient oak tree that came right up to the windowsill.

"How long will I have to stay here?" She queried, attempting a rightly chastised expression.  
"Until you behave like a lady," Replied Mrs. Bennet.

Elizabeth let out a sigh, _I will likely die in this room then!_ She thought, knowing that she had as much chance of turning into a turkey as meeting Mrs. Bennet's notions of how a lady should behave. So with the help of Mrs. Hill, her meagre personal belongings were moved into the _'naughty girl's, little closet'_ as Elizabeth came to think of her room.

In the usual way of the Bennet household, Mrs. Bennet would eventually soften and relent to a degree, but the distinct lack of callers in the succeeding weeks and the cool treatment by the local society banked Mrs. Bennet's anger and continued to fuel her resentment.

That is not to say that the young Elizabeth was without allies. Jane appealed to her mother, stating that she would be ever so scared and lonely in such a big room on her own, and begged that Elizabeth be permitted to return. But Mrs. Bennet would not be moved, and instead promoted Mary from the very full nursery in order to share with Jane and benefit from her good example.

Mr. Bennet was sympathetic to his favourite daughter's plight, although not sufficiently to openly oppose his formidable wife and further disrupt the peace of his household. He wrote directly to his brother in law to apprise him of the situation and to acquire some new wallpaper to brighten the dreary little room. The package, when it arrived, included not only the requested wallpaper, but a very slim, beautifully upholstered armchair and an invitation to spend the approaching winter with the Gardiners in town. The invitation was the first of many, setting a trend for Elizabeth to spend a good portion of the year in London with her aunt and uncle, mostly alone, but occasionally accompanied by either Jane or Mary.

The circumstances of the fateful day, whilst ignored by her mother but widely known throughout the locale of Meryton, also garnered gestures of support from all levels of society. For, the erstwhile Hannah Hill had been well liked by the staff at Longbourn, before marrying Thomas Brown, a prosperous tenant farmer on the Longbourne Estate. As the only surviving child of Mr. and Mrs. Hill's union, Hannah was quite doted upon by her parents and her only child, Tommy, was the apple of their eye. Mr. Hill spent three consecutive weekends trimming and sanding the wonky washstand before painting it a beautiful bright shade of blue. To complete the revamped stand, Mrs. Hill contributed a simple but finely made porcelain basin. Thomas Brown had made a slim bookcase to store her books and treasured keepsakes, along with a matching desk. They were by no means extravagant but the slim, unpretentious design appealed to Elizabeth's sense of style, and were painted in the same bright, cheery blue as her washstand.

Any who discovered the details of Elizabeth's heroic act could not help but admire the young girl and be dismayed that she should be subjected to such a cruel and unfeeling mother. For Elizabeth had not merely fished the boy out of the water from the safety of the bank, she had waded out into the deepest part of the pond. As a furtive self-taught swimmer, she was by no means confident in the water and had feared for her own life more than once, especially when trying to manoeuvre a heavy Tommy through the deeper parts of the pond whilst keeping his face above water, while being hampered by her skirts and petticoats. By the time she reached the shore, she had felt as if she could have died from exhaustion, but as the other children were hardly more than babes, all aflutter with excitement in the crisis, she could not rely upon them to seek assistance. She had therefore run the half mile to Longbourn, frequently tripping, adding ripped stockings, scraped knees and mud to her already dishevelled appearance.

Such selflessness was rarely to be seen, and Lady Margaret had offered the young girl the choice of her own greatest treasures as a reward for her heroism; she could pick two books from Netherfield's extensive Library.

Elizabeth endeared herself to the Lady even further when she elected to take a beautifully illustrated edition of 'The Histories' by Herodotus in its original Greek, and could not be persuaded to select a second book.  
"It would be greedy and unpardonable to take two when this is such a magnificent book." Elizabeth had claimed sweetly, then she turned very solemn. "And truly, my Lady, if you persist in such largesse, it might just tempt me to shove all the local urchins into obliging waterways so that I might rescue them one by one to expand my library," the sparkle in her eyes and the sweet dimple in her left cheek giving away her tease.

"Very well Miss Bennet, I will not test your fortitude, but you must come and borrow books from my library whenever you please to prevent your resorting to such underhanded methods," replied Lady Margaret with a laugh.

 _Even now, ten years on, the exclusion and the insult still stung._

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth once again surveyed the room. She had been banished here by her mother, but the gifts of the kinder people in her life had turned the prison into a cosy retreat, quite at odds with the general chaos of the Bennet household. She was sorry to leave it all behind: the cheerful wallpaper, the bright and comfortable yellow armchair, the desk where she had penned all of her early correspondence and the bed where she had slept and dreamt of a better life.

The lovely leather bound gold embossed Greek Histories that had occupied pride of place in her bookshelf here, then accompanied her to boarding school, to her uncle's residence in Cheapside and back to Longbourn again, would not be left behind. The treasured tome was in one of her trunks ready to follow her to the next stage of her life.

As she guessed she would never see the room or her home again, she ran her hands along each surface as if to imprint them in her memory through touch. In an attempt to regain her equilibrium, Elizabeth wandered over to the window and leaning heavily on the sill, staring intently into the branches of the adjacent ancient oak tree.

Jane, made uncomfortable by the melancholy silence, placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. "Oh Lizzy, it will not be so very bad, you will see. You will. Who could fail to come to love you once they have the chance to know you?" She entreated lovingly, stooping down to rest her chin on her much shorter sister's shoulder and wrapping her arms around Elizabeth's chest to draw her closer.

Jane, ever the optimist, willing to put her faith in humanity tried to maintain a serene and subtly hopeful countenance. "Things will turn out, you will see".

But rather than being soother, Elizabeth started gulping, emitting a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, but surely on the edge of hysteria. Elizabeth could not help but marvel at Jane's sweet heart, her naïve innocence. _How does one go through life thinking the best of everyone?_ _Particularly someone raised in the Bennet household?_ For Elizabeth, the more she saw of the world the more she was disappointed with it. Judging by the almost pleading tone of voice, she wondered if Jane sought to convince herself as much as anyone else. As much as she desired to be bolstered by Jane's conviction, threadbare though it was, she could not. Today she would once again leave Hertfordshire behind, once again to venture into the unknown. Yet this time she would have the neither the company of her Aunt or Uncle to support her confidence. No, her only company would be a man who had shown her nothing if not outright contempt.

Elizabeth placed her hand over her sister's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Jane you are too good. You see in goodness in everyone, even when there is none to be had. He was so bitter, so cold, during the ceremony. "

The other occupant of the room, Madeline Gardiner, blanched. Seeing her usually vibrant niece brought so low clearly pained her as she bleakly watched the sisters giving each other comfort.

If there had been anything the lady could have done to spare Elizabeth from her fate, it would have been executed with alacrity. Alas, the consequences of refusing the match were simply too great: all of the Bennet sisters would have had to partake in the resulting ruin and disgrace. Indeed even if Mr. Gardiner had the legal standing to dispute the match, there was every chance Elizabeth would have insisted on going through with the marriage nonetheless, unable to blast her sisters' already slim chances of matrimony.

Mentally canvassing ways they could have halted the inevitable was fruitless, as were Jane's empty platitudes.

"Jane why don't you get Mrs. Hill to sneak some tasty morsels into a basket for the carriage ride while we talk marriage duties" suggested Mrs. Gardiner.

"No need to ask me twice," replied Jane with an uncomfortable smile. She gently turned her sister by the shoulders to face her and smoothed an errant curl behind her ear. "I will see you downstairs, do not forget to fetch me before you depart. I would never forgive myself if I did not have the chance to see you off."

The unsaid word _'again'_ hung in the air between them along with the fear that it may be the last time they would see each other for some time, perhaps ever. As Jane softly closed the door behind her, Elizabeth, cognizant of her imminent departure, endeavoured to pull herself together. Taking a shaky breath and running her thumbs under her eyes - even though she had not managed to produce any tears - she took a seat on the small bed and turned an arch look on her aunt, who had also risen for Jane's departure and was now seated in the armchair against the opposite wall. "I fancy I know all there is to know about the marriage bed. Apart from growing up on a farm, Mama gave an account that was both detailed and vivid…. Shockingly vivid!" She said with comically wide eyes.

"I have no doubt that your mother's disclosures were alarming to say the least, but the subject I had in mind is rather more encompassing, making it rather difficult to know where to begin."

"I believe, that to begin at the beginning is customary," offered Elizabeth drolly, with an arched brow.

"Whilst I am glad to see you retrieved your wit, I would prefer that you shelve it again for the duration of this discussion. Perhaps you could put away your pride along with your pig headed stubbornness, if you do not mind."

At the look of naked hurt that flashed across Elizabeth's already pale face Mrs. Gardiner sighed, "I'm sorry Lizzy, I should not have snapped at you. My only excuse is that the discussion…. that is…. I have never shared the whole of my history with anyone, even your uncle, although he is familiar with the more salient points. Many aspects of what I am about to tell you still occasion pain, but simply put, love you too much to stay silent. "

Elizabeth watched as her aunt, usually the very definition of composure, paced back and forth on the rug before settling at the window. By the look on her face, Elizabeth guessed she was not seeing the garden before her, but was instead looking far back in time, thus it was no surprise when she spoke in a distant voice. "My mother died when I was a very young girl. I have only the faintest memory of her. In my formative years my family consisted of my father, with the occasional visit to my elderly grandfather in town. I was largely left to my own devices, as the estate and horse breeding ventures consumed the lion's share of my father's attention. Honestly, I suspect he had no concept of how lonely I was, moreover if aware, I doubt he would have had the knowledge or inclination to resolve the situation. My life lacked affection, but I did not want for any material thing. Dresses, toys, even an obscenely expensive pure white pony to ride. But much like you, my dear, all I cared about was books. I buried myself in the written word, I read about adventures so far away from my dull existence, about science, philosophy, heroes and villains. But most of all I read about love." She turned and gave Elizabeth a sheepish half smile.

"I was so caught up in my romantic sensibilities that I participated in local society, assemblies and such, but emotionally kept myself aloof from it all. The posing dandies of the neighbourhood and the more staid older marriage minded men of the county held no interest for me. Naturally, in the absence of a respected female influence I had no-one to bring me down to reality, to counsel prudence. I dreamt of the magic of a London season, of being dazzled by some young gentleman who would sweep me off my feet, who would make the world so beautiful just by his presence. You will have no trouble imagining my surprise and disappointment when my father told me he had brokered a marriage for me."

Elizabeth nodded, intrigued by her Aunt's disclosures. In recent years Elizabeth had spent more time in her Aunt's London home than Longbourn, and considered Madeline Gardiner to be her true mother in many ways, yet despite their intimacy, Elizabeth knew almost nothing of her Aunt's childhood or first marriage.

"Well I ranted, I raved, had fainting fits, refused to eat and even tried to run away. I rather think I played out more than half of the plot lines I had ever read, but unlike the heroines in my stories, I did not prevail."

"But how could your father arrange a marriage without even consulting you? Moreover, once he knew you were opposed to the match, why did he force you? Did he have no regard for your feelings?"

Madeline Gardiner turned to her niece with that rueful smile again and shook her head gently side to side, making her strawberry blonde curls sway. "My father was not the villain, arranged marriages were the norm back then. I envisage he rather thought he was doing the right thing by his only child. My betrothed with his title, minor though it was, would be considered quite a step up socially. His nearby estate was known to be moderately prosperous, and the master himself deemed by most to be a fair, open minded type of gentleman. And as my father, the incurable horse lover, told me "His stables are in excellent condition and I've never seen him ill-treat any of his horses." I guess he supposed that likely to make him equally kind to a wife," she explained, before returning her gaze to the window. "At first he was baffled by my obstinacy, his anger when he comprehended my resistance was more than frightening," she gave an involuntary shudder. "So by the time Sir Arthur Morton proposed to me, I accepted with all the appearance of meek pleasure. I docilely went through the motions of the engagement, expecting a last minute reprieve that never came."

She touched the window, running her fingers along the edge of the panes of glass, refusing to acknowledge Elizabeth's mounting indignation.  
"The first months of my marriage I still existed in a state of shock, unable to account for the change my life had taken. As I emerged from the overwhelming inertia, I could only see the faults in my husband - so many inconsequential little faults – thus I rejected all of his overtures of friendship; I sought little ways to punish him, as the author of my predicament."

"So I should say," fumed Elizabeth. "Sold to the highest bidder, like some sort of brood mare."

"But that is where you are wrong; where _I_ was wrong! This is what I am trying to convey to you, my stubborn, beautiful, headstrong girl!" She responded with conviction. "My husband was a true gentleman, Lizzy. He tried to meet me halfway numerous times, when frankly my behaviour so was appalling, he would have been justified in putting me aside. I can scarcely reflect on my attitude without abhorrence." She paused taking an even deeper breath before continuing, "In the early days he frequently presented me with small gifts: books, jewellery and piano music sheets. I was treated to a shopping trip in London and a holiday in Bath. More to the point, he tried to engage me in conversation, to understand my interests and find common ground. Yet I persisted in my churlish attitude, clung to my prejudice. After a year or longer he stopped trying, went on long hunting trips with friends, leaving me behind in my misguided misery. It was on such a hunting excursion that he took a fall." 

As her Aunt talked she placed her palms flat against the window sill. Two tracks of tears began to silently make their way down her face. At that moment she looked like nothing but lost girl, rather than the elegant confident mother of three boys Elizabeth had come to admire. "It should have been nothing, but the wound he sustained developed an infection. Naturally I was summoned.  
When I arrived he was quite far gone, in his fever and delirium he clung to me so desperately, confessed all the things I had made it impossible for him to say. He confessed that he had always viewed me with affection, an innocent affection that had bloomed into love when I reached my womanhood. All he had wanted to do was support my happiness; create a family for us and love me. He went onto to apologise for marrying me, for falling short of the man of my dreams, for letting his shyness overshadow his passionate feelings.  
He even implied that perhaps it was better this way, that with his death I would be set free to be happy, to marry a younger man. I… I still have nightmares about that final night," she choked. "I begged him to live, I begged him, as he shook violently with the fever and all he kept saying over and over again was that he loved me, he loved me so much. By the morning he had slipped into a coma and took his last breath an hour after sunrise."

Elizabeth could do nothing but unabashedly gape at her Aunt. Although she was aware that Uncle Gardiner was her second husband, Elizabeth had never given much thought to her Aunt's first marriage. She could have never imagined that her impeccably poised Aunt could have concealed such a past. To Elizabeth she was the definition of a sensible woman, the type of woman she aspired to be, just as the marriage her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner shared was the yardstick she measured relationships by. Her desire to replicate their loving relationship was as much behind her quest for a love match as the dismal example of marital discontent she had been privy to growing up.

As if the confession had sapped her energy or perhaps her spirit, Madeline Gardiner sat down heavily on the bed, the tears had stopped, but her pale countenance still held a slack look, her eyes still unseeing. Unsure what to say - or if indeed there was anything to say - Elizabeth scooted along the bed to wrap an arm around her Aunt's middle and rest her head against her shoulder, like she had often done as a child. "I am so sorry Aunt, I never knew."

The only response she received was a barely perceptible nod. As they sat in silence, Elizabeth thought over her Aunt's disclosures. To have been made to marry a man she did not care for, it seemed to be the way of the world. She could apprehend that her Aunt still felt very guilty over the manner of her first husband's death. Then another thought struck her: as the daughter of a well to do gentleman and the widow of a Baronet, how did she ever end up marrying Uncle Gardiner?

Before she could stop herself she blurted out the question. "Why did you marry again and to Uncle Gardiner?"

"That is a story for another time," her Aunt replied quickly. The question seemed to re-animate her, though. "When I saw you in the church today, I felt I was looking at myself as I was back then. You are so angry right now, and I understand how you feel -I truly do- but don't make the same mistakes as I did. You could…"

"But it is not the same Aunt!" Elizabeth interjected, pulling roughly away. "Notwithstanding that ridiculous story we've been bandying about Mr. Darcy and I meeting in London and falling in love, you know the true sequence of events. This is a forced marriage; there is no base of affection on his side, quite the opposite. You witnessed yourself how cold and haughty _he_ was during the ceremony."

"Can you claim that _you_ behaved with perfect propriety during your wedding ceremony?" Mrs. Gardiner gently admonished her niece with a quirked eyebrow. "Consider that Mr. Darcy may have harboured other plans for his future. He is as much a victim of circumstance as you. Do not judge him too harshly for his behaviour of this last week." She reasoned firmly, before continuing. "Furthermore, you have little concept of the world he inhabits, the kind of match he would have been expected to make. You are well outside the sphere he would have searched for a bride."

Elizabeth bristled, straightening her back. "He is a gentleman, I am a gentleman's daughter so far we are equal".

"A gentleman's daughter yes, but who are your uncles? Your mother? A country attorney? A Tradesman? The daughter of a Wainwright, a very successful Wainwright, I admit, but what is that compared your Husband's family?" She said, not unkindly. "He is nephew to the Earl of Matlock, has cousins in the De Bourgh family and ties to the Duke of Carlisle."

"How do you know so much about it?" replied Elizabeth sulkily.

"The Darcy family own half of Derbyshire, they have been there since the time of William the Conqueror, and have continued to grow in wealth and influence rather than frittering it away like most so called noble families. Many people travel to Derbyshire with the express purpose of touring Pemberley. Until this morning your husband was one of the most sought after bachelors in all of England."  
Elizabeth watched as her usually unflappable Aunt pinched the bridge of her nose for patience, "I know a little more than most. My father's estate Emmersdale, is no more than seven miles from Pemberley. Although he was by no means a close acquaintance, my father was received by the previous Mr. Darcy and Lady Anne. The £10,000 a year your mother keeps quoting is but a fraction of the overall Darcy wealth."

She slipped her hands around Elizabeth's and gave them a squeeze. "If the circumstances were other than what they are I would be thrilled for you."

Fire kindled in Elizabeth's dark eyes. "Because Pemberley is beautiful and I will be rich, Aunt how can you say such a hateful thing! I care nothing for the trappings of wealth."

"I know, I know," she interposed, patting her niece's hands. "Fine clothes, fine carriages and rich meals are not all that will come with your new position. You will have a great deal of responsibility; Pemberley alone would employ as many as fifty souls between the house, stables and gardens, and you will also have the management of a well-staffed house in London. There are obligations to the tenants of the estate and you will be expected to take an active role in the community, charities and so on, both in Derbyshire and in town. It will be an opportunity to use that remarkable intelligence of yours, and that eccentrically effective education you received. It is the kind of opportunity that is rarely available to our sex and nigh on inconceivable for the daughter of a country squire. It is the life I had hoped for you, living as nothing more than a drawing room ornament would have destroyed you."

"Did you worry about me so much?" Said Elizabeth, her eyes softening. 

It was a dilemma Elizabeth had mentally chewed over for most of her adolescence: were the abilities she possessed a blessing or a curse? Certainly, her artistic expression; her skill on the pianoforte and her untutored but delightful drawings, were lauded as the proper accomplishments of a young lady and she was permitted to indulge in them at will. If Elizabeth preferred to scribble detailed architectural representations in charcoal rather than flowers in watercolours, the quality of the depictions more than compensated for the odd choice of subject matter. Elizabeth's passion for language and the written word was more problematic.

Whereas the modern languages were viewed as the purview of gentle bred females, ancient languages were the province of aristocratic men, learnt in the hallowed halls of university. To have a female comment on the inaccuracy of a quote or translation could be a serious blow to the ego of a recently graduated, perhaps insecure, young gentleman, earning her the title of bluestocking or girl in breeches.

Likewise, her knowledge of literature could be considered a liability on the marriage mart. Though many a young buck might say he would wish for an intelligent wife to engage in high minded discourse, what they truly appreciate is a female to nod, listen and smile sweetly while the man may ramble on uninterrupted and unchallenged.

Wisely, she had concealed her proficiency and enjoyment in mathematics from all but her most trusted confidantes, namely Mr. Bennet, Jane, Charlotte Lucas and the Gardiners. And of course Cassandra, who exploited her skill unabashedly at every opportunity. 

"Aye, I did worry and will continue to worry a while more," continued her Aunt earnestly. "You are too quick to judge people and as stubborn as a mule once you form an opinion." Elizabeth looked down, chagrined at the truth of the statement.

"I will refrain from implying that Mr. Darcy is perfect, no-one is, but he is your husband and he deserves the benefit of the doubt and your loyalty, as far as you are able give it. For your own happiness you must not let your ego, your wounded pride or vanity rule you. Meet him halfway, my dear. If _he_ is less than the perfect husband that is no excuse for _you_ to be less than the best wife you can be. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Elizabeth nodded mutely, still unable to look at her Aunt.

Mrs. Gardiner reached under the bed to retrieve a large flat box tied with a deep red ribbon, and placed it tentatively onto Elizabeth's lap. When she looked up Mrs. Gardiner was smiling self-consciously.

She toyed with the ribbon for a few seconds before her curiosity got the better of her. Lifting the lid, Elizabeth found the most exquisite robe: ivory in colour, the silk robe sported a lovely pattern of a forest of brambles with brightly coloured birds, insects, leaves and flowers rendered in painstaking detail, finished with a soft lavender trim and matching sash. Tracing her fingers over a green humming bird, she flashed delighted smile. "Oh thank you, it is so beautiful!" she said, running the silk through her fingers and delighting in the tactile pleasure of the very fine textile.

When Elizabeth lifted it up to appreciate the full effect of the pattern another garment fell from her hands. Picking it up with curiosity Elizabeth turned it this way and that, marvelling at the soft texture but confused by the sheer translucence. Even with the fabric doubled over she could easily discern her hand through it. _How strange, perhaps it is an overdress of some sort?_ She held it higher to better gauge the items use before giving a loud gasp and letting it drop through her fingers.

"It is a nightgown, for your wedding night," said Mrs. Gardiner as if reading her niece's mind.

Elizabeth looked at her in horror. "The cut alone is more than indecent and the fact this is entirely see through….. well I… might as well wear nothing at all!" She replied in a rush, her cheeks glowing red.

Mrs. Gardiner gave a laugh, "If things go well this evening it may even come to that." She regarded her scandalised niece who had her mouth open like a gaping fish. "I thought you claimed that between your mother, the farm animals and books you were well informed with regards to the marriage bed?"

"Oh Aunt please do not tease me on this subject! Despite my bravado, I am terrified. Is it really as unpleasant as Mama says?" Elizabeth pleaded, holding her hands on her cheeks as if to contain her blush.

"Very well my dear. I will desist, but only if you take what I am about to say with the gravity it deserves." Elizabeth nodded her agreement, and yet it was a few moments before her pensive Aunt brought herself to carry on, choosing her words with care.

"Much of the success of a union is determined in the marriage bed. Obviously procreation, getting an heir for your husband and a child for you to love are reason enough to never bar Mr. Darcy from your chambers. Furthermore men have quite strong urges for physical intimacy, if denied they are wont to become irritable and moody."

Elizabeth watched her aunt pause and take a very deep breath before exhaling it with a sigh, clearly reticent. "It is not uncommon for a gentleman of Mr. Darcy's standing to keep a mistress, if the desire for intimacy is particularly strong. You were not his choice in a bride, nor do you have the family connections to compel his good behaviour, placing you at a disadvantage before you begin. You do not want to spend the early years of your marriage competing with his paramours."

Elizabeth picked up the robe and scandalous nightgown and folded them neatly on her lap while her aunt talked, blanching slightly at the mention of lovers. It brought back remembrances of a time in her life and a man she would rather forget. Smoothing her hands over the collar again, she spoke. "How am I to keep him….. satisfied?" She looked down at her hands, "I cannot help but think that I…. will be a disappointment."  
Elizabeth missed the knowing smile that met her statement.

"Although you may not realise this, you are naturally inclined to passion. The way you infuse your music with emotion, your love of poetry, even the way you stroke that robe all speak your passionate nature. If you can but surrender to physical intimacy, I venture that you would greatly enjoy it. Permit yourself to be led by your husband, he will show you what is pleasing to him and I speculate he will want to please you in return"  
Elizabeth graced her aunt with a sceptical glance loaded with an equal measure of vulnerability.

"You are an exceptionally beautiful girl." At this statement Elizabeth began shaking her head, emphatically.  
"I know what you would say, that your beauty is nothing to Jane's," countered Mrs. Gardiner, "but I must tell you that your mother glorifies Jane's beauty precisely because your sister is the picture of herself in her youth. I have always thought your looks more engaging and there is no doubt your beauty is much more appealing to men. Tell me who had two offers of marriage before their nineteenth birthday?"

"A sycophant and a cad," replied Elizabeth.

"Two eligible matches, nonetheless….. Your husband will want to touch you," continued her Aunt, "you must let him, you must try to enjoy it even."

"And if he hurts me? How much trust can you extend to a perfect stranger? I met him but a week ago and I can scarcely count more than ten words we have spoken to each other, none of them amiable."

"Mr. Darcy was gentleman enough to marry you to preserve your reputation and the standing of your family. Those are not the actions of a rake. If he was inclined to cruelty, the worst punishment would have been to walk away. I cannot think he will be anything other than a gentleman in private," reasoned Mrs. Gardiner, before adding, "if he is not…. well I can only remind you that you are not friendless. Seek shelter with Lady Cassandra. It may take time, but should you have need of us, we will come for you. Nevertheless, even if he is all that is kind there will be pain the first time, bleeding too, and some minor discomfort thereafter until you accustom yourself to the activity."

Mrs. Gardiner finished her discourse with a few simple methods for minimising the discomfort of her initiation to marriage, ranging from a glass of wine before bed, to a warm compress after the business was taken care of. She then gave the new Mrs. Darcy a few minutes to contemplate the entirety of their conversation. For Elizabeth's part her mind was a whirl: married to a man, _a stranger_ , and she would leave all of her family behind to go home with this _stranger_. If she was to salvage any happiness in her new circumstances, she could not wallow in self-pity or indulge in bitterness of spirit.

To say that she had found her aunts past a surprise would be an understatement. Although the circumstances were perceptively different, she could apprehend the warning. It gave her a great deal of comfort to have a plan; the rapid beating of her heart began to subside, along with the earlier feeling of nausea. Elizabeth determined that she would endeavour to give her Husband the benefit of the doubt. She would set out to discover the best aspects of his character, and whenever she felt herself becoming peevish she would think on her Aunt's example and strive to do better; or at least hold her impertinent tongue, should all else fail.

Whatever the state of their personal relations, he would have no cause to reproach her on her duties pertaining to the houses or the estate. The skills she never anticipated using would be employed. Naturally of real life experience she had none, but Rome was not built in a day. She would take time to learn and adjust to her role, just as the staff would take time to adjust to her management, but she would attend to her obligations as mistress with diligence. Yes, diligence and as much cheerfulness as she could muster!

 _The marriage bed though_ , she thought, her newly revived spirits faltering again as her breath hitched. Her aunt had never steered her wrong before, and yet the thought of a man whom she did not love, touching her, taking liberties and perhaps undressing her completely was difficult to reconcile. She remembered the stolen kisses, the youthful indiscretions she had engaged in years earlier, before her eyes had been opened to the true character of her erstwhile suitor or betrayer, depending on how you looked at the situation. She had been so ashamed after the first kiss and yet the scorching urgency of his embrace and heady feeling created by his whispered words of passion had led her to meet him again despite her better judgement. Was this evidence of a passionate nature? Would kisses with her husband have the same intoxicating effect?

She was shaken from her reverie by her Aunt clearing her throat.  
"You have given me much to ponder, thank you for being, so…so... forthcoming."

Her Aunt shrugged before taking Elizabeth's hand to pull her up from the old bed. "And yet there is no time for introspection, your departure is nigh." She stopped before opening the door to the family corridor. "I wish we could delay the Indian expedition, so that we could be nearby should any difficulty arise. Perhaps I could remain and travel onwards once you are settled."

The idea had appeal, but Elizabeth waved off the statement. "Nonsense, your home is leased and the passage booked, there is nothing to be done but leave as planned."

The Gardiners had always made their home open to Lizzy, both as a guest and as a permanent resident, incurring considerable expense to further her education. She could not begrudge them the chance to expand their fortunes. Uncle Gardiner was both clever and ambitious, which was just as well, since he had three sons and was determined to see them well educated, and more importantly, well brought up. It was sometimes a fine balance, pursuing pecuniary advantage while maintaining a sufficient fatherly presence in the home, thus he found it necessary to take his family with him to India. Should everything proceed according to plan, many years would pass before they kissed the shores of Mother England again, mayhap never. It would be the height of selfishness to beg her aunt to stay, delay her departure, and make the protracted perilous journey without the protection of her husband.

The choices made in such a short life already haunted Elizabeth. If she had not insisted on seeing her family one last time, she would be bound for India as well. Now she was destined for a fate even more foreign and frightening.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth Darcy nee Bennet proceeded down the wide staircase at Longbourn arm in arm before separating in the foyer. Mrs. Gardiner glanced at the tall grandfather clock and then peered discreetly around the doorway at the wedding festivities. "Should I send the carriages around now or would you prefer to linger a while?"

…

Lost in his dark thoughts, Darcy missed the approach of her new wife. It was not until she reached over to gently touch his elbow that he registered her presence. Despite the touch being feather light, he flinched away from the contact, before turning a haughty look at his diminutive companion.

He struggled momentarily with the idea of making a false display of affection: a kiss upon her hand or even a warm smile, but he found his face was set into hard lines, completely immovable, like stone. Try as he might, he could not re-arrange those set features into a more agreeable rictus, disguise of any kind was his abhorrence. Fortunately, he was also not known to be a demonstrative man nor a talkative one. A quick survey of the room assured him that no-one had noticed anything amiss. 

With a bracing breath Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy looked up into the forbidding face of her spouse. Her own countenance was devoid of colour or expression as she emotionlessly offered. "The carriage should be around momentarily, if you care to depart?"

His only response was to offer her his arm. Looking down at his proffered limb, she bit her lip and glanced up at his face again in that searching manner of hers. He watched her slowly place her hand in the crook of his elbow, her manner reminiscent of a wary animal; indeed her touch was so light he could barely feel the contact.

As they made their way to the door, he noticed out of the corner of his eye Mr. Bennet, Miss Bennet and Mrs. Gardiner moving to follow. As the carriage rounded the house, Mr. Bennet with a grim expression patted his daughter awkwardly on the shoulder. A gruff: "Safe journey," was all he offered before turning on his heel to re-enter the house.

Miss Bennet put her arms around her shorter sister in a lingering embrace, whispering soft words of comfort while Mrs. Gardiner soothingly rubbed the back of her departing niece's arm.

Once again Darcy found his chest tighten with the injustice of the whole situation. Why were her relatives acting like she was on the way to the gallows rather than the comfort of Grosvenor Square and eventually the splendour of Pemberley? And what if he were taking her to a hovel? She was the author of this scene, of the whole sorry situation. She was not entitled to the luxury of regret.

Letting out an impatient huff Darcy walked closer to the carriage, distancing himself from the emotional scene. Too far removed to discern the substance of their conversation, he could only witness his wife shake her head to a softly spoken question from her Aunt and then shake her head again at a similar entreaty from Miss Bennet. She tied her bonnet under her chin in a practised manner, and with a watery smile she gestured for the other women to return inside.

Another figure shot out the door in a flurry of shirts, literally throwing herself into her sister's arms. Mrs. Darcy squeezed Miss Mary with equal vigour, then held her back at arm's length with her head tilted at an angle and a smile fluttering on her full lips. "No, it will not do", he heard his wife mutter. She then proceeded to remove her bonnet and place it gently on her sister's crown, her matching scarf was transferred to her sister's neck. She momentarily fussed this way and that before nodding her head. "There, now all that is lacking is a coat and you will be perfectly turned out to visit me in London." The normally staid Mary gave a giggle and said something, but he was too far away to catch the reply.

If she thought he would allow her sisters to share a home with his own impeccably mannered sibling, he would disabuse her of the notion soon enough.

Turning his gaze determinedly to the carriage, he noticed a decided scarcity of trunks. Although the Bennets were not of his sphere he expected a gentlewoman would have accumulated a significant amount of belongings during her lifetime. Equally, he assumed that she would be hard pressed to prioritise the possessions that she might like to take with her into her new situation. In an unprecedented show of consideration to his bride, he had left the bulk of his own luggage in London, limiting his valet to just a single trunk of necessities. By all appearances he ought not have bothered: the carriage where he had anticipated upwards of a dozen items of luggage to be secured only held a large trunk, a hat box and two smallish wooden crates in addition to his own travel chest.

He suspiciously watched the Miss Bennets return inside, followed by Mrs. Gardiner, then cocked his head at Mrs. Darcy and enquired: "Has your father sent your luggage ahead already?"

He watched as a blush crept up her neck and set her already rosy checks in a deeper shade of pink. "No, Sir".

Darcy regarded the carriage again in confusion before his eyes narrowed in suspicion. _Why, the bold little hussy_. Best disabuse her of any notions she may have of manipulating him in the future: he had no intention of dancing to her tune, now or ever. "I would command you to go back up and get the rest of your things, but I have had my fill of local society under the circumstances," he said in a menacing voice. The way she winced and dropped her eyes to her shoes suggested that he had hit his mark.  
Right in front of him he had seen her gift her bonnet and scarf to her sister.

He turned a critical eye on the rest of her travel attire. The blue fabric was of reasonable quality and the cut well fitted, but it was stark in its lack of adornment, very much at odds with the fussy attire the rest of the Bennet girls usually sported. Additionally, it showed signs of wear, a repaired cuff, gentle fraying on the hem; this was not the first winter for the coat. Yes, added together with the sparse luggage and against the gowns her sisters wore traipsing about the village, it was clear that she had given away the bulk of her best attire on the eve of her wedding.

"Be warned, Madam, I will not even advance you a shilling towards a new wardrobe as Mrs. Darcy. I am not a man to be trifled with. You will be required to subsist with the means of your pin money. You ought to have thought of that before you allowed your sisters to divide the spoils of your life as Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Mrs. Darcy glanced back towards the house, though her Aunt and sisters were long gone, she opened her mouth as if to say something, but obviously thought better of it, before sweeping past him, jaw obviously clenched, to enter the carriage on her own, spurning his extended hand.


	3. To London

Chapter 2

About halfway along their journey to London the countryside seemed to remember it was winter and a chill wind picked up, buffering the conveyance this way and that as it rumbled along toward town. It was not the worst carriage ride Elizabeth had endured, which would have been a comforting thought had she not experienced so many dismal journeys in her short life.

The opportunity to say goodbye to her loved ones was certainly a point in its favour, as was the well sprung carriage. The expertly upholstered squabs were perfectly stuffed, and true to their rich golden colour, the finish felt as smooth as butter. If it was a bit cold, and her travel companion even colder, Elizabeth could take solace in the fact that at least she had some idea of her destination.

This had not been the case when she had been evicted from Longbourn under the cover of darkness _some five years earlier_.

That night, her first thought had been that her mother and Mr. Collins had conspired to circumvent her refusal of his offer by kidnapping her off to Scotland. It stood to reason: the cretin had been nothing if not insistent, even threatening to compromise her if she did not yield. Moreover, her mother had harangued her on the subject morning, noon and night for a month complete, making it clear that if she did not marry Mr. Collins she would be welcome at home no longer.

But no, _Collins could not be behind this_. She had heard just that morning that Elinor Goulding had foolishly accepted an offer of marriage from her cousin. His obsession with her person notwithstanding, she could not imagine he would be willing to weather the combined scandal of a broken engagement and an elopement by force. No, clearly her mother was acting alone; _but to what end?_

What followed was four days of hard travelling in a hired carriage and three sleepless nights, mired in suspense at various inns along the route. _Heaven be praised they were not heading north!_

She had tried to pump the maid (hired to accompany her) for information, but the mousy haired girl, scarcely two years older than herself, had not been apprised of the final destination. The only intelligence she had to offer was that she would be required for eight, perhaps nine days and recompensed at double her usual wages at the Red Lion in Meryton.  
This had brought Elizabeth to a terrible agitation of spirits on the fourth day of their journey, knowing they were likely to reach the mystery destination imminently.

Elizabeth's unlikely conveyance and rag tag companions departed the Silver Crown inn well before dawn, and her nails were bitten almost to the quick by the time they stopped for breakfast. Today was they day they would reach their destination and she justly feared what her mother had in store for her.

 _The gentle sway of the coach and the creaking of the harnesses, soothing in their way, led her pliable mind back to the past few weeks; Elizabeth reviewed her last month at Longbourn, looking for clues. But in her reflection, she felt as if she were living the painful days all over again._

When she had initially refused Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet's fury was an awesome sight to behold, like a tempest of nature, her eyes were rolling like the sea and her hair had seemed to stand on end with the strength of her rage.  
"You ungrateful little wretch! You would see your family starve in the hedgerows rather than do your duty and marry Mr. Collins? I am ashamed of you, selfish, unfeeling girl!" Mrs. Bennet had cried, chest heaving. Although such a speech would have reduced Mary or Jane to hysterical tears Elizabeth stood, unmoved. Correctly reading the defiant glint in her daughter's dark eyes, Mrs. Bennet quickly changed tack.

"This may be the only offer of marriage you ever receive. You would do well to think long and hard before you cast away what may be your only chance at security." She surveyed her daughter again through narrowed eyes, "You lack refinement," she pronounced, lips thinned in displeasure and eyes flinty. "You may be pretty in a coarse, milkmaid sort of way, but certainly no beauty. If Mr. Collins wants you, more the fool him, you had better take him before he comes to his senses."

"He is a lecher and a fool. I will not have him, not for all the jewels in the crown, let alone the dubious pleasure of having you reign over _my household_ for the remainder of _your_ life!"  
Without any thought, Mrs. Bennet reared back and slapped Elizabeth full across the face. Elizabeth did not cower or cry. An involuntary flinch was quickly suppressed; she intentionally set her chin up in the air and insolently stared her mother down. The moment seemed to draw out to an eternity, a relentless battle of wills. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Bennet's hand twitch, either tingling from the force of the slap or longing to strike again, she could not be sure, but regardless, she would not be cowered.

She _could not_ be cowered; the stakes were just too high in this contest. From the earliest moments of their acquaintance she had known that she could never marry William Reginald Collins. Her heavy set cousin presented a curious blend of humility and self-importance, but more troubling was the sly cunning she occasionally glimpsed in his unguarded moments. His creeping gaze would sweep over her, lingering on her bosom; it made her itch with unease. More than once she had caught him loitering in the hall outside her bedroom. She had often longed for the safety of a bedfellow, and felt the resentment over the room allocations burst forth again. She was certain to the very depths of her soul that an existence as Mrs. Collins would be a life of misery and degradation. Elizabeth set her shoulders and continued to hold her mother's gaze even as the red hand print on her face began to swell.

Mrs. Bennet was the first to look away, yet as if thinking the better of it she said, "This is far from over. You will do your duty and marry Mr Collins, or I will see to it that you never have a moment's peace under this roof."

"Do what you will! My courage only rises with every attempt to intimidate me!" Elizabeth retorted brazenly. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to flinch as she watched her mother raise her hand to administer another slap. She braced herself for impact, but Mrs. Bennet halted mid swing, then grabbed her daughter roughly by the chin, turning her head to regard the swelling cheek.

"Hmmmm best leave that be. In fact better have Hill ice it. You must look your best for your future husband at dinner tonight." And with that parting shot she swept out of the room, leaving the fifteen year old Elizabeth reeling at the disastrous turn her life had taken.

In the weeks that followed, Elizabeth felt she lived in a perpetually hunted state. Mealtimes were a fraught affair: Mr. Collins' barbed comments meandering from the doctrine of honouring thy mother, sins of pride and submitting to your husband. Although his discourse was not uniformly acerbic; when he found himself seated next to Elizabeth he inexplicably treated their engagement as _fait accompli_ , openly referring to their eventual removal to Hunsford and attempting to whisper sweet nothings into Elizabeth's ear or clasp her hand to bring it to his perpetually moist lips for a kiss. Whenever she sensed him sliding towards the demonstrative, she would lean as far away as the table allowed and clasp her hands together in her lap, her knuckles white.

The combination of the odour of unwashed sweat emanating from the man and the allusions to their life together, hardly suitable for a maiden's ears and delivered in that oily voice, left her unable to keep any of her food. Already quite slim, Elizabeth moved towards the gaunt end of the scale and found herself on more than one occasion feeling faint.

Acutely aware of Elizabeth's distress, Jane and Mary from that point contrived to sit beside their beset sister always to spare her Mr. Collins' solicitation, despite Mrs. Bennet's violent protestations. When separated from Elizabeth by either the table or another family member, Mr. Collins became excessively belligerent, red in the face, preaching damnation. His speech would increase in resentment and sheer volume until, at the close of the final course, he would stand up and stare down each family member in turn, finishing on either Elizabeth or Mrs. Bennet, to grimly remind them that, "Those who oppose God's will suffer God's wrath," before quitting to his room upstairs.

Poor Mary had taken to silently weeping at the table; and a week after the initial refusal, Elizabeth had found Mary's bible and copy of Fordyce's Sermons surreptitiously thrown in the trash heap by the kitchen. Even Mr. Bennet looked drawn by the discord at his table.

If Elizabeth hoped he would say something to defend his declared 'favourite daughter', she was destined to be disappointed, as rather than confront her tormentor he chose forthwith to take his meals on a tray in his library come study.

Unfortunately, the close of the evening meal brought no relief either, as Mr. Collins' pronouncements of doom never failed to send Mrs. Bennet into a flurry, fainting fits, white faced fury, incessant wailing or meticulous recitations of Elizabeth's every fault –real or imagined - to impress upon her the folly of refusing what would in all likelihood be her only offer of marriage. Most often it was a combination of all of the above and the commotion lasted late into the night. Of course Mrs. Bennet, sensible of playing to all her advantages, would never permit Jane to miss her beauty sleep. So while the two youngest girls slumbered in the nursery, oblivious to the turmoil of the house, Jane would toss and turn beside Mary in their shared room wishing they could do something material to help their beleaguered sister. Elizabeth herself would stand stoically while her mother harangued her into the small hours.

Steady to her purpose, Mrs. Bennet confined her reluctant daughter to the house. Although Elizabeth could not repine missing the local parties, she found the curtailment of her walks a source of frustration and sorrow, not the least because Mrs. Bennet seemed determined to fill every waking hour with protestations to do her duty; and demands that she stop being such a wilful headstrong ingrate.

It was during one of her night time addresses, after the rest of the family had retired, that Mrs. Bennet played her trump card. Elizabeth, seated demurely on the tapestry love seat with her hands folded in her lap, tried to mentally distance herself from her mother's abuse. She glanced furtively at the clock and hastily repressed a sigh: it was not even half past eight; if the last several nights were anything to go by, her mother would not wind down any time before eleven and more likely later.

"If you will not do your duty and marry your father's heir you leave me no choice: I will re-direct his attentions toward Jane or perhaps Mary."  
Elizabeth's head snapped around at this declaration. Her heart felt like ice hands had gripped it all round and began to squeeze. She would never become Mrs. Collins of her own freewill, it was a fate worse than death, but to see one of her sisters leg shackled to that.. _that monster_ , would be a torture beyond imagining.

She closed her eyes against the image that came unbidden of fourteen year old Mary standing teary eyed beside Mr. Collins at the altar, being harangued by him in her matron's cap or forced to wait scared and alone for him in her bedchamber.

Willam Collins had never looked twice at the tall stately Jane, and Elizabeth doubted that Mrs. Bennet would permit the match. Jane was destined for greater things, a bigger fish. Bile rose at the back her throat. No, it would be Mary forced to take her place. She frantically searched the recesses of her mind for a way out.

Her father? _Surely he could not allow that reprehensible man take a girl child, his own child, for a wife_ , but Mr. Bennet's conduct to date had given tacit permission to Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet in their campaign. True, he had not forced Elizabeth's hand with his prerogative as a father, but neither had he forbidden the match, equally within his power if not his inclination. And if he was not willing to exert himself to protect his fifteen year old daughter, whom he professed to love, would he lift a finger to shelter the fourteen year old girl he has always treated as somewhat of a nuisance?

The picture fluttered across her mind's eye again: vulnerable, self-conscious Mary forced to endure the attentions of their deranged cousin.  
"Mr. Collins wants me!" Elizabeth blurted, panicking.

Mrs. Bennet smiled widely. "That he does," her excitement at finally finding the suitable lever to move Elizabeth written like a banner across her countenance. She picked up her embroidery sampler, neglected from the day of Mr. Collins' proposal, and completed a stitch or two, in an obvious display of complacency.

"Now, Mr. Collins has been delayed in Hunsford until the end of the month, but when he returns Friday next, I expect you to welcome him with open arms, or perhaps a little something else, to reward his patience with you. A walk in the garden and a few liberties would not go amiss, I am sure."

Elizabeth was not able to control the shudder of revulsion triggered by the suggestion. "Or maybe Mary could give him a tour of the prettyish wilderness at the end of the garden," Mrs. Bennet left the question hanging, pushing her advantage. She no doubt found it most gratifying to see the fight drain out of Elizabeth, who could do nothing but nod, defeated and bleak.

"Off to bed with you. We make a start on your wedding trousseau early tomorrow," said Mrs. Bennet brightly. Grateful for the chance to escape, Elizabeth made her way to the door. Just as she was reaching for the handle her mother said, "If Mr. Collins finds himself unsatisfied with you in any way, not only will dear Mary take your place, but there will be no place for you here: I will turn you out without a penny." Elizabeth turned to sadly regard her mother, who was smiling viciously, but said nothing and then stepped through the door.

When the doomed day of Mr. Collins' return arrived, Elizabeth met him at the door in a new dress commissioned by Mrs. Bennet. The purple gown was hardly suitable for a still unmarried woman, or indeed any sort of gentlewoman, being so low cut and tightly fitted across the bosom. Mr. Collins, far from objecting to the outfit, was further delighted when his blushing intended suggested a walk around the garden to stretch his legs after the lengthy journey. He clearly tried to restrain his eagerness, especially when Mr. Bennet regarded him with a gimlet eye. Before taking his arm, Elizabeth shot her father a look filled with sorrow and disappointment, pulling her shawl closed to cover her partially exposed bosom.

Granted, until that very morning Elizabeth had been resigned to her fate as the future Mrs. Collins, but every step that took them deeper into the more private recesses of the garden made her doubt her resolve, her ability to go through with this…. this travesty! She noticed with a crawling sensation that the further they walked away from the windows of the house, the heavier the breathing of her companion became, clearly not from exhaustion due to her determinedly sedate pace. When he made to pull her behind a hedge, Elizabeth tried to wriggle free of his grasp him but he pinned her to the adjoining stone wall. No, no, no! She couldn't do it. Become Mrs. Collins. As her loathsome cousin leaned in for a kiss, she reared her booted foot back and kicked him hard in the shin. He cried out in pain but rather than releasing her arm, he squeezed it, causing her to hiss in pain and anger.

"You will pay for that," he jeered, "On our wedding night."

"I will never marry you! You are the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry, you, you… _toad!_ " She spluttered, as he jerked her back towards the wall.

"You can come to me willingly, or I will compromise your virtue right here, right now," he threatened, trapping her with his considerable bulk. But the threat, far from cowering Elizabeth gave her a flash of inspiration.

"Ruin _me_ if you will, but I will ruin _you,_ " she retorted through gritted teeth. She positioned her leg as if readying to give him another kick. As predicted, Mr. Collins shifted his weight to the opposite limb to avoid another strike. Elizabeth used the moment to push against him, levering him off balance just a touch, then quickly and forcefully threw up her own hands to break his hold. After her successful manoeuvre, she walked a step or two away, but remained in the concealment of the wall.

Mr. Collins watched her sullenly but made no move toward her person. "It is the wicked daughters of Eve who are ruined, not men of God."

"I will write a letter to the Bishop detailing your persecution of me and improper advances on my person." His piggy eyes continued to follow her progress as she backed up another step from him.

"That would just speed up the calendar for our nuptials, my dear," he then smirked, openly admiring her heaving bosom.

"But it would slow down your career considerably, and when I tell him the way you imposed upon our poor maid Sarah, it may stall it altogether, in point of fact."  
Rather than denying the charge, he only said: "You have no proof."

"Oh but I do," she replied, gesturing toward the house. "Longbourn has a small park, not many secluded places to conceal your transgressions, there is always someone about….. Mr Hill witnessed you leaving the large barn. On the same day Sarah was late to dress me for dinner."

"The word of a clergyman against a senile retainer, a wild hoyden and a fallen servant girl. No-one would believe it was me. She probably took a tumble with a stable lad and is trying to pass off the bastard as mine."

"You may be right, but the suspicion alone might be sufficient, I can imagine.' She paused for effect. "Once Lady Catherine De Bourgh is made aware of _your_ …. proclivities I am sure she would not wish you within a thousand miles of her unmarried daughter."

The way his eyes flashed and complexion turned puce with rage suggested she had hit on her mark. "A patroness like Lady Catherine, why, she could destroy a man as easy as elevate him," she finished with mock innocence.

"Once I am master of Longbourn it will not matter. I believe a bastard or two is quite expected."

"You are both loathsome and premature," she countered coolly. "Papa is in excellent health. It could be another twenty years before you inherit. Could you survive that long with no prospects or income?"

She could see the cogs turning by the expression on his round flaccid face, so it was no surprise when he said "What exactly is that you want?"

"I will not marry you, nor will any of my sisters."

"Your dear Mother may have something to say about that."

"Then you make it clear that you deem none of us suitable brides or I will make it clear to all and sundry that you are not suitable to be a clergyman." He grimaced but nodded. Elizabeth gave an internal sigh of relief, her impulsive gamble might just pay off.

"Be warned Madam, I will toss the whole lot of you out on your ears the very moment your father's heart stops beating."

"It is no loss to us; living under the dubious protection of a lecher like you would be like setting a fox to guard the henhouse."

"So be it!" he roared. "I do not doubt you will live to regret your actions today, cousin!" Then he turned on his heel and stormed toward the house.

Storm was an apt description. She was sure that once Mrs. Bennet was apprised of the ruination of her plans she would be terrifying in her wrath and swift to punish the culprit. Although nothing could be worse than marriage to Mr. Collins, Elizabeth was sensible enough to be apprehensive of her mother's reaction. She wandered the garden until dusk and the chill forced her to return to the house and face the consequences of her actions.

Upon entering the hall she was struck by the unaccustomed silence of the house. Home to five females, it usually held a happy bustle. Mrs. Hill walked in from the darkened dining room.  
"The missus' said she will speak to you in the morning," she said patting Elizabeth on the back in a motherly fashion.

"But where is everyone else?" Elizabeth enquired, peering into the deserted parlour. Mrs. Hill leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially "The girls were all sent to bed without supper, but don't you worry Miss, I had Sarah slip above stairs with a few cuts 'n' bread."

"Mr. Collins?"  
"Gone."  
"Gone?"  
"To the Red Lion," Mrs. Hill clarified. Elizabeth conceded that it was too much to hope that a man of his limited means would be able to quit the neighbourhood entirely with any sort of promptness, but at least he was gone from her home, "and Mr. Bennet?"

Mrs. Hill gave a shrug, but her pursed lips and pinched expression gave away the substance of her thoughts on the hen pecked patriarch of the family. "Took supper in his bookroom. He's probably still there if you want to have a word with him."

Elizabeth shook her head: there was nothing to be gained. If Mr. Bennet was prepared to direct his wife in any way he would have done it years ago. If anything, he had made himself more scarce than ever since Mrs. Bennet declared the match a done deal a fortnight ago.

Strangely enough Mrs. Bennet didn't call for Elizabeth the next morning, and in the days following gave all the appearance of forgetting her wayward daughter altogether. It was only the occasional venom filled glance that told Elizabeth that her punishment was only delayed, not cancelled. She spent sleepless nights wondering what form Mrs. Bennet's malice would take, and the false sense of calm permeating the house only heightened her anxiety.

Apparently, Mr. Collins had not left the vicinity and was rumoured to be a frequent guest at both Lucas Lodge and Hay Park, home of the local branch of the ubiquitous Goulding family.

"I saw him at Lucas Lodge with my own eyes," said Mrs. Phillips taking tea with her sister in the sitting room one morning at Longbourn, "Did you know he tried to suggest that our Lizzie jilted him?" Elizabeth winced at this new and unwelcome piece of intelligence. "I was about to put him straight when Miss Lucas, of all people, piped up and said that there was never any engagement betwixt him and Elizabeth, so he could not very well be jilted."

 _Dear, dear Charlotte,_ thought Elizabeth privately, _protecting my reputation at great personal cost!_ For she knew that Lady Lucas, an even harsher disciplinarian than Mrs. Bennet, would not let her daughter get away with speaking at out turn and even worse contradicting a financially eligible suitor.

"Yes, to my everlasting disappointment there was no agreement between Mr. Collins or any of my girls, ungrateful toad of a man, after I made him welcome in my home to go courting other girls right under my very nose! The nerve."

Mrs. Phillips nodded her agreement vehemently, "I daresay he won't be courting Miss Lucas anytime soon, if his furious look was anything to go by."

"Foolishness! No looks, no dowry and approaching two and twenty; who does she think she is refusing to entertain the addresses of the heir to Longbourn?" Replied Mrs. Bennet looking pointedly at her daughter.

"Quite so sister, quite so."

It was not two days later that Mrs. Phillips appeared at their door, well before the acceptable hour for callers, to impart the most delicious piece of gossip over breakfast. "Mr. Collins is engaged!"

"To whom?" cried Mrs. Bennet stabbing her knife into a jar of strawberry preserve. "Oh don't tell me that ninny Caroline Goulding got him!"

Elizabeth wished herself invisible, sure that this unwelcome piece of news could not help but send Mrs. Bennet into a violent rage.

"Nay, not Caroline Goulding." Replied Mrs. Phillips, obviously relishing being the centre of attention.

"Well it would have served him right, face like a horse, that one," grumbled Mrs. Bennet sullenly. "So it is Anne then?"

"No! Elinor!"

"But Elinor doesn't turn sixteen for another month!" interjected Elizabeth, dropping her half buttered muffin.

"That is old enough to marry!" thundered Mrs. Bennet, momentarily forgetting her resolve to ignore her wild daughter.

"Mr. Goulding has given his blessing, so the banns will be read this Sunday. I expect Mrs. Goulding will be in fine fettle at my card party this evening. What a catch, and a daughter married at fifteen!"

Mrs. Bennet gave her sister a quelling look, then turned to Elizabeth and shouted "Upstairs, now!" Elizabeth rushed for the door, expecting to receive a tea cup in the back at any moment.

"You need not bother preparing yourself for the party tonight, you're not going, nor will you attend another party _EVER_ , if I have any say in it," she heard shouted through the door.

Elizabeth watched her family depart for the Philips' party through the upstairs window. Curiously her father had decided to accompany them. Come to think of it he had been spending an inordinate amount of time out and about lately. Maybe he found the atmosphere at Longbourn just as stifling as Elizabeth did.

Mrs. Hill, ostensibly on her father's orders - for she doubted her mother cared two figs about her nourishment - had arrived with a tray of supper, and a warm soothing cup of tea. Elizabeth awoke sometime later, not sure how she had managed to fall asleep in such turmoil of spirits. Stretching her neck and feeling a pain in her ribs, she realised she had drifted off fully dressed, still wearing her uncomfortable stays. As she gazed groggily around her room she suddenly realised her shelves were denuded of many of her favourite books. Coming forcefully more alert, she darted over to throw open her closet.

Why half her dresses were gone, the very best dresses she owned too. It was at that moment that Mrs. Hill appeared at the door again. She seemed surprised to see Elizabeth awake, and her countenance held not an insignificant amount of guilt too, "I'll be taking yer down to the carriage then."

"What carriage?!" exclaimed Elizabeth, but Mrs. Hill instead of answering just grabbed Elizabeth under the elbow to lead her down the stairs, where a sobbing Sarah helped her into her bonnet, pelisse and gloves.

"Where am I going?" enquired Elizabeth frantically.

"It is not in my power to say, Miss" replied Mrs Hill sadly, all but pushing Elizabeth up into the carriage. She registered that the conveyance, while in good working condition, was completely unfamiliar, as was the maid seated on the dark blue squabs across from her. Elizabeth belatedly leaned towards the door, to entreat Mrs. Hill to give her more information, when the door was slammed almost in her face. And a loud "drive on" order was given by Mrs Hill, the woman she had always thought to be her friend rather than just a servant. But she watched the matronly woman scurry back inside, without even acknowledge her own hand raised in a stunned farewell.  
…..

 _That had been more than four days ago_. When the coach, around noon, pulled up in the drive in of a large manor house, a sense of calm resignation had overcome her. Her mother had tried to break her before, and yet she had weathered maternal displeasure and increasingly humiliating punishments with aplomb, so she gamely climbed down the carriage with the assistance of the scurrilous looking coachman. Looking behind, she spied the fairly beefy postilion unbuckling her trunks.

The two men with their size and threatening mien were not her ideal travelling companions and yet they had spent four long days on the road without even a whiff of highwaymen, so it seemed that their grim appearance and the many pistols they conspicuously sported on their attire had served the purpose.

The building before her was a sprawling manor made up of soft orange bricks and finished with buff plaster work. It was likely late Elizabethan or even early Jacobean, if the Dutch Gables and Cornish strap work were anything to go by. The manor, three levels in height, looked to be in good upkeep. The sun reflected off the clean mullioned windows and the emerald green lawn was trimmed to almost military preciseness, but the place exuded a sense of obligatory efficiency.

Elizabeth's sharp eyes alighted on the east wing which had obviously undergone some repair in the not so distant past. The new plasterwork was tidily done, and in the same buff tone to match the rest of the exterior, but it was plain; there had obviously been no attempt to recreate the ornate strap pattern featured throughout. Likewise, the garden beds boasted mostly low maintenance hedges and shrubs, also trimmed into neat and tidy lines. One or two beds sported flowers, but they seemed to lack the loving care of the rose garden at Longbourn or even her Aunt's modest window planter boxes in Gracechurch Street.

The absence of that essence of homeliness made Elizabeth's scalp crawl: it was obviously some variety of institution.

Just then the heavy double oak doors opened and a tall, willowy middle aged woman in a matron's cap started to confidently descend the stairs towards the drive.

"Don't unload the luggage here. Take it around the back entrance," she said sharply. The answering scowl on the postilion's face caused her to give a little shake of her head and she turned to Elizabeth subtly rolling her eyes. "Of course if you prefer to lug it all the way across the foyer and up the stairs, far be it from me to dissuade you… Miss Bennet, I presume," she then said to Elizabeth, offering a tight smile. Elizabeth thought she didn't look like the proprietor of a mad house, so decided to cultivate allies where she could until she learnt more of her new situation.

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet," she replied with a ladylike curtsey.

"Mrs. Pratt. Come I'll show you to your room. Mr. Pratt hoped to greet you in person, but we did not expect you for another two hours at the very least."

Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise and her heart gave a little leap. Why, her father had a good friend from university by the name of Pratt, she had even met him once as he passed through Meryton. She had not met his wife though, so she could not be sure this Mr. Pratt was one and the same as Mr. Bennet's Oxford study fellow.

As they entered the foyer, sparsely furnished but clean, Elizabeth looked around anxiously. All the doors leading off the central hall were closed, but she could hear the quiet murmur of many voices permeating the establishment, like a steady drone of bees, and distantly the sound of someone playing the pianoforte in stops and starts.

Mrs. Pratt, correctly reading Elizabeth's curiosity, at least in part, said: "Yes we are quite full this year." She looked Elizabeth over intently, whether she was found wanting or not was hard to tell. Then the woman proceeded up the wide red carpeted staircase, indicating with a nod that her guest was to follow.

"My soft hearted husband could not ignore the entreaties of both your father and Lady Margaret, or the enticement of a budding mathematician." Taking the first landing, she led her charge down a long corridor. "It was less than ideal taking on a student so late into the term and when we are full capacity, so I'll expect you to do your utmost to adjust to our routine promptly."

"Student?" replied Elizabeth on an exultation of relief. She felt she could almost melt onto the stairs, as all the persistent tension evaporated from her taut frame. Mrs. Pratt gave her a look that suggested she considered her impertinent or feeble-minded, perhaps both. "Yes, a student!"

They had stopped before a solid door at the very far end of the hall. Mrs. Pratt didn't bother to knock, but rather pushed the door open revealing a stricken young lady who looked to be a year, perchance two years, Elizabeth's senior.

"Cassandra! You ought to be at your geography lesson."

"Oh Mrs. Pratt, I have the most terrible headache, I told Mr. Wentworth I had to go lie down immediately."

"And yet you are not lying down," Mrs. Pratt observed, the nostrils on her sharp, blade like nose flaring, "I also find it a _terrible_ coincidence, that you have fallen ill no less than four times precisely in step with your scheduled geography instruction."  
"My goodness, that is a coincidence!" Elizabeth had to hide a smile behind her gloved hand at the girl's obviously manufactured attempt at innocence.

"I'm worried these episodes may indicate a chronic malady; you shall spend the rest of the day in bed and I will send you up a nice chicken broth in lieu of your supper."

"But what about my appointment with Monsieur Dupont?" cried the girl.

"Oh no, music practice must be the worst possible thing for your _terrible headache_ , but don't trouble yourself, I am quite sure one of the other girls will be eager to take your place even on such short notice. Hmmmm I will check on you frequently, so that should this malady strike again I can ensure you do not exacerbate it with music practice." The girl gave the mistress a sour glance at this pronouncement but was wise enough to hold her tongue.

"Now, this is Miss Bennet. She will be sharing with you forthwith." The girl reared at this obviously unwelcome piece of intelligence, but the stern Mrs. Pratt held up her hand, forestalling her protests. "Miss Bennet, let me introduce you to Lady Cassandra Wendell."  
Lady Cassandra answered Elizabeth's curtsey with an elegant one of her own, her good manners apparently overpowering her indignation at being forced to share a room.

Turning to Elizabeth with a reassuring smile Mrs. Pratt added, "Take this opportunity to freshen up. Someone will come to fetch you to have a late luncheon with Mr. Pratt and myself in an hour. In the meantime I leave you two to become better acquainted."

When she had exited, closing the door with practised efficiency, the latch had barely clicked when Lady Cassandra threw a cushion the door. "Old bat!"

"Is she really that bad?" asked Elizabeth, eager to garner any information on her new situation.

Lady Cassandra grimaced, "Yes!... no!" She admitted at last, most reluctantly. "Mrs. Pratt has her favourites but on the whole she is generally fair. She is hardest on me because I tend to get up to the most trouble." Elizabeth watched the young lady throw herself down on the bed with a sigh, collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She rolled onto her stomach and popped a hand under her chin, looking Elizabeth up and down in much the same manner as Mrs. Pratt had moments earlier.

Elizabeth shifted from one foot to the other nervously, she knew that her travelling outfit was a horrid thing, an orange dress with a lime spencer worn over, finished with piping in that same god-awful shade of orange. It was part of the wedding trousseau Mrs. Bennet had ordered for her when the match with Mr. Collins appeared to be clinched. Up to that point the only new dresses she had received in recent years had come from Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, although her father had given her a bolt of rose coloured muslin for her fifteenth birthday.

Most of her wardrobe consisted of re-worked gowns that Jane and the equally tall Mary had grown out of. Her sweet sisters cognizant of her embarrassment had helped to refresh the dresses. Jane in particular, quite the proficient with a needle, had dedicated many hours turning the worn out dresses Elizabeth inherited into something befitting a gentlewoman, even if they would never be the first stare of fashion. Elizabeth could not have been more grateful, as she was even more hopeless when it came to stitching a straight seam as she was in embroidering a simple flower. Elizabeth had also cultivated a strong confident persona, trying her best to laugh off the second rate treatment she received at the hands of her mother.

"Are you a cit? Because that is the most hideous colour combination I have ever seen!" She wrinkled her nose, as if the dress offended her sense of smell as well as sight.

Elizabeth rather than taking offence gave a tinkling laugh, "I'm not a cit, but I suppose you could say my mother is, and consequently she is the one who picked out this rather…. shall we say, daring combination?"

"I'd call it vulgar!" she returned mischievously as Elizabeth removed her spencer, looking for somewhere to hang it. Lady Cassandra, seeing the direction of Elizabeth's thoughts gave another sigh before jumping up off the bed.

"I suppose I'd better make some room for you," she grumbled walking towards a door on the far side of the room that led to very small dressing room with two banks of wardrobes at one end and a screen at the other.

Elizabeth peered around the painted screen to see a bench with a chamber pot on one side and a hip bath squeezed into the other. She looked towards Lady Cassandra who was trying to shove a handful of dresses into a cupboard that seemed to be almost filled to bursting point already.

She was certainly a tall girl, at least a good head taller than Elizabeth was herself, and where Elizabeth was delicately put together, Lady Cassandra was a tower of strength with her broad shoulders that tapered into an almost impossibly tiny waist and flaring back out again to generous hips. Added together with the tiny hands she could see and the tiny feet peeking out from under her skirt, Elizabeth thought it was a fashionable figure, but of the type that could easily transform into a pudding if the owner lacked care.

She readily excluded Lady Cassandra from this category. The trim state of her silhouette and the smattering of freckles on her nose evidenced enjoyment of physical exercise and preference for the outdoors.

Her face was perhaps too long for classical beauty, but certainly a handsome countenance. In Elizabeth's opinion though, the lady's best feature was her hair: she had thick tresses the colour of honey, with a gentle wave, it contrasted beautifully with her almond shape green eyes.

"If you are finished gawking, perhaps you could give me a hand," prodded Cassandra, still determinedly trying to lever another gown into the stuffed wardrobe, stomping her little feet in frustration as she gave another almighty shove.

"You needn't go to so much trouble on my account," countered Elizabeth, her voice bubbling with amusement. "I have just the one trunk and sadly it contains a number of dresses commissioned by my mother, fit for nothing but the incinerator. I imagine I will rub along quite well with just a quarter of the hanging space, if that suits you?"

"Capital!" exclaimed Cassandra letting the gown she was trying to push and a few others pop back out again. She gave a sly grin. "I really have too much anyway. I thought I was going to a ladies seminary in Bath, attending all sorts of parties and concerts between lessons, but my wily stepmother changed the venue at the last minute stranding me here! At the bottom tip of nowhere!"

"This is a seminary, then?"

"Yes a seminary, Mr. and Mrs. Pratts comprehensive girls academy. What did you think it was?"

Elizabeth bit her lip, "I don't know - a mad house?"

"Ha!" exclaimed the Lady clapping her hands together in glee, "I smell a good story, and since I am confined to this room until God knows when, I will expect you to include every detail!"

Keen to get off on the right foot with her bedfellow, Elizabeth related the details of the Mr. Collins affair in full; from the slimy man's proposal, _his_ refusal to accept _her_ refusal, Mrs. Bennet's diabolical stratagems to force the match and the scene in the garden that finally gave Elizabeth her freedom at the cost of her family's security.

She even shared her initial suppositions that her mother had packed her off to Bedlam or something worse, based on her history of hostility. It was cathartic to freely talk about the ordeal, and Lady Cassandra was a wonderful audience, sighing and cursing in all the right parts and even clapping when Elizabeth described the look on Mr. Collins when he realised he was to be denied, "Like he had been smacked in the face with a fish."

Elizabeth couldn't quite place her finger on what had made her open up to Lady Cassandra, maybe it was something in her bluff brash personality. She may give offence at every turn, but it seemed like it was wholly unintentional. Cassandra seemed painfully honest and there was considerable comfort in that, she also didn't seem to mind being teased, which was equally appealing to the often impish Elizabeth.

"Oi! And your own mother too! At least mine is a stepmother, it is quite natural for her to treat me like a nuisance come rival. Well you needn't worry, if you are such a bookworm you are sure to love it here." She said nodding her head complacently. "When they say a comprehensive education, they unquestionably mean comprehensive. There is compulsory geography, science, philosophy, ancient languages, and if you can believe it, mathematics! Not just how to balance a housekeeping ledger, but full blown mathematics."

Elizabeth had to smile at Cassandra's outrage. "I take it you are not a budding mathematician?"  
"Heavens no! Easily my worst subject, although I am quite terrible at agriculture, business studies, oh and geography as well, but now that I think on it, my most dismal failure has been the ghastly medical series they ran last year."

"Swoon at the sight of blood, do you?"

"Ah quite the opposite, that is the problem. I asked too many unseemly questions, apparently. Mrs. Pratt said the purpose of the course was not to turn us into physicians but give us a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, to assist in the management of our households."

"Like in the case of an epidemic of some kind?" asked Elizabeth tilting her head to the side, finding herself more and more intrigued.

"Precisely! But I still don't know how to save my valiant serfs, should the black plague come to Hucknall Torkard, I was kicked out of the class in the second lesson for peeking in the instructing physician's books. Oh and for stealing his frogs and putting them in my roommate's bed."

"Surely you know that they are tenants, not serfs anymore, and there has not been a serious outbreak of the in plague in over 50 years."

She waved off the correction. "Did I happen to mention history is my very worst subject?"

Elizabeth laughed heartily, feeling a feather light happiness. She realised it was the first time she had laughed out loud since Mr. Collins first came to Longbourn. "It is certainly an eclectic range of subjects. I thought ladies seminaries merely offered a smattering of music and spent the rest of the time teaching you to walk while balancing a book on your head."

"See, the distinction is that this is not actually a ladies seminary," revised Lady Cassandra matter-of-factly. Elizabeth's finely drawn brows bunched together in confusion.

"It is a school for the vulgar daughters of ambitious cits. They learn from Mrs. Pratt all the accomplishments expected of a society lady: address, hostess duties, dancing, music, arts and languages. They even teach riding, ha! Some of the girls here have never touched a horse, let alone ridden one. It is quite hilarious to watch them flailing about and tip toeing around on those sore rumps for weeks after...-"

"Why the mathematics and business then? You would think them desirous of shedding their connections to trade," interrupted Elizabeth.

Lady Cassandra gave a wide smile, "But consider their matrimonial prospects, aristocrats with pockets out to let are their quarry. If the Peers were not in desperate need of funds they would naturally seek an alliance within their own class. Should a girl marry into such a financially strained family, what should she do? Watch it all fall down around her while her dowry gets frittered away like the rest of their wealth before? No, her education will bring the financial sense that her husband and perhaps the remainder of her new family have hereto lacked. At this school she learns not only how to navigate the social waters of London, but how to steer her family to greater prosperity along the currents of business." Her lips turned down. "They are perfectly honed little petticoat invaders to British privilege," she finished, the last part of her speech strongly favouring bitterness.

"All families, even the titled ones, had to start somewhere. Why do you hate them so much?" Elizabeth asked, genuinely curious.

Although Cassandra's visage remained closed in expression, her green eyes shimmered with a barely perceptible melancholy. "I hate it here," she said, but there was no fire in her statement, just a mournful resignation at odds with her earlier cheerful demeanour. "I hate it because I love it: the lessons, being judged on something other than my not quite beautiful face or my barely solvent connections. I chaff about the academic study, but I actually thoroughly enjoy much of it. I have peeked behind the curtain that binds the women of my class and seen a life more rewarding, more useful, more….. substantive. But that future will not be mine, I will moulder away in some country gentleman's estate if I get married at all, while my fellow students will rule mini empires and conquer the scene that should have been my birthright."

Elizabeth digested this speech silently, reflecting that she too would have little occasion to use any skills garnered through her study, but that she was determined to squeeze every little drop of enjoyment out of the process just the same. Seeking to lighten the mood she quipped, "So your stepmother sent you here to moulder away in ignominy; what pray was the catalyst? Did you put frogs in her bed too?"

Lady Cassandra bucked up at the enquiry, "Worse…."

"Worse?"

Cassandra took a deep breath; Elizabeth observed mortification and amusement warring for dominance over her new friend's expression. Amusement won, with an edge of rueful embarrassment as Lady Cassandra described the prank turned tragedy that had resulted in her own banishment from her family home.

"Sally Jersey! Why in heavens name would you do such a thing? Are you touched in the head?" cried Elizabeth, utterly incredulous.

"Of course I didn't mean to put the frogs in her bed, awful Aunt Muriel was supposed to have the blue room. She is my stepmother's relation, not mine. The old dragon has been piteously campaigning to send me off to school since before my Papa even married, I thought to take her down a peg or two. I didn't know about the last minute change; and to my everlasting despair, the countess's maid saw me exit the suite, so my plan to blame it on one of the several boys included in the house party was thwarted furthermore…. Well you know who Sally Jersey is – I will never get a voucher to Almacks nor receive any invitations of the least consequence. In such social exile it is unlikely I will marry, so my stepmother, in her infinite wisdom, packed me off here, where I can at least learn to manage my inheritance, in the hopes that my spinsterhood can be conducted in genteel rather than abject poverty. She is a cit too. Well she was before marrying my father anyway. Saved us from financial ruin with her plump dowry and now she runs our home with an iron fist, cloaked in a velvet glove of course. She attended here herself."

Elizabeth nodded earnestly at her downcast companion. It was a great deal to take in and yet she could not help a tell-tale twitch of her lips. "Considering your record of assault by amphibian, should I fear frogs in my own bed?"

Cassadra smiled up through her fringe of golden hair. "Undoubtedly, and likely on the least provocation, but you do not strike me as the sort who would run howling to the house mistress."

It was testament to the easy accord reached between the girls that it was a full month before Lady Casandra finally secreted some frogs under Elizabeth's pillow. Although she squealed quite satisfyingly, it was nothing to the peals of terror that Cassandra unleashed when, upon sitting down to pen a letter, a snake sprang from her escritoire.

From that point onwards Cassandra was duly wary of setting pranks upon Elizabeth, but enlisted her aid in all sorts of tomfoolery perpetrated on the snootier students within the establishment. They often jointly congratulated themselves on their prodigious success in avoiding detection and corresponding punishment.

Mrs. Pratt, along with the other staff, never saw fit to burst their bubble although they were more than aware of the girl's capers, only stepping in if a particular student was being victimised or if the prank could result in dangerous or serious consequences. The pupils of humble origins would be faced with varying degrees of resistance, from mild hostility to outright cruelty on their ascension, so an appropriately thick skin could be nothing but desirable. As both Elizabeth and Cassandra were essentially good girls, for all their high spirits, intervention was rarely required.

With Elizabeth's assistance Cassandra improved in all her studies with the exception of ancient languages, as in this subject she was inadvertently separated from her roommate and bosom companion. In fact, Elizabeth received her instruction directly from Mr. Pratt in private sessions, being as she was so far progressed in her studies, to place her not only well in front of her fellow pupils, but well in excess of the standard even taught at the school.

In a nod to propriety a maid always perched in the corner of the room whilst Mr. Pratt and Elizabeth Bennet bandied back and forth in Greek, Latin and occasionally Arabic. Mr. Pratt's tuition in this arguably obscure language was not initiated with any expectation of regular application in her future life. Rather it was a small harmless exercise in abasement, it being the only language, or in fact area of study, that Elizabeth did not take to with the proverbial ease of a duck to water.

For her part Elizabeth greatly enjoyed the sessions, Mr. Pratt reminding her greatly of her own father and rainy days spent in his study at Longbourn.

Along with the knowledge he eagerly imparted, Elizabeth also studied the character of Mr. Pratt, for he was in so many ways similar to Mr. Bennet: his passion for learning, quick wit, preference for study over work and pathological avoidance of conflict.

But Mr. Pratt led a very happy life. Whereas Mr. Bennet seemed to be mired in misery, the most obvious difference was Mr. Pratt's fortunate alliance with Mrs. Colleen Pratt nee Bradcombe.

She managed the thornier aspects of the school's operations and presumably the finances as well, while Mr. Pratt was allowed to engage exclusively in the instruction of the subjects that gave him the most pleasure, consequently producing a corresponding enjoyment in his students who could luxuriate in his superior tutoring: both well planned and intrinsically engaging. If there was any discord in the marriage, neither Elizabeth nor the other students were privy to it. Mrs. Pratt seemed to revel in her industrious state and Mr. Pratt could always be counted on to have a kind word for his wife, often stating that, no matter who was within hearing, he would be utterly lost without her.

Early on Mr. Pratt had obligingly satisfied Elizabeth's natural curiosity over her placement at the school. Mr. Bennet had apparently applied to both Lady Margaret and Mr. Phillips for assistance in removing her from the vicinity of Meryton before she succumbed to either her mother's castigations or Mr. Collins' alternating blandishments and threats. The secrecy was not to be wondered at, as Mrs. Bennet would have stopped the departure by any means at her disposal, had she become aware of the plan.

All the elaborate cloak and dagger would seem to be far more trouble than the simple expedient of taking his wife in hand and banishing the pernicious presence of Mr. Collins forthwith and henceforth. But taking into accounts Mr. Bennet's essentially timid, if intelligent, personality and Mrs. Bennet's nigh on deranged insistence on having all things arranged according to her own designs, the disguise employed in Elizabeth's removal had a grim practicality.

Mr. Bennet had not known of the Collins-Goulding engagement in time to halt the plan, but now that Elizabeth was out from under her feet, Mrs. Bennet was in no hurry to have her back again. Elizabeth had also received a short missive from Lady Margaret of Netherfield deploring Mr. Bennet's own lack of correspondence and assuring Elizabeth that she was welcome, nay encouraged, to stay at the school as long as it suited her, everything was taken care of.

With a pang of guilt Elizabeth supposed Lady Margaret might be footing the tuition fees at least in part if not in their entirety. It shamed her to the core to think of how much the lady had done for her in the past: the library access, the gentle mare provided on loan when Jane and Elizabeth expressed an interest in riding and the frequently offered seat in her carriage whenever she was bound for London and Elizabeth journeyed thither for a sojourn with her Gardiner relations. When she communicated as much in a return message to Hertfordshire, the brusque but kind Lady had informed her to cease her nonsense directly: she was perfectly entitled to dispense her largesse at her own discretion, having no children of her own. She also suggested that should Elizabeth feel indebted regardless, she could consider it an investment in good company, obliging her to repay the kindness by reading to her within her dotage, for her fashionable but sadly ignorant nephews had no interest in the classics and were like to read her that overly sentimental Byron tripe, if they could be persuaded to read to her at all. The idea of anything short of death keeping Lady Margaret from the outdoors or from sampling the delights of her library independently was laughable, but in her next letter Elizabeth assured her friend that she would valiantly protect her from mediocre literature if the need ever arose.

Of the waking hours, Elizabeth spent the vast majority of her time accompanied by Cassandra; during lessons, meals and leisure time they could be found heads together, Cassandra's honey coloured locks contrasting sharply against Elizabeth's riot of ebony curls. A largely indifferent rider up until that point, both from a lack of opportunity and lack of application, once lady Cassandra took her in hand, Elizabeth's amplified confidence and enjoyment of all things equestrian was startling.

To be sure, a portion of the appeal derived from the establishment's rules on walking, for Elizabeth was not permitted to venture beyond the gardens unaccompanied by a fellow pupil or servant. She had hoped that Cassandra may share her love of country rambles, but the severe whining the young lady had produced for the duration of their one, and only, constitutional was sufficient to convince Elizabeth her friend would stubbornly persist in detesting the activity. And since servants could only be spared from their duties on Thursdays and Saturdays, and grudgingly at that, she elected to submit to Cassandra's preference of riding to enjoy her daily measure of fresh air and sunshine.

Both young women had bold personalities, prone to taking risks, which naturally lent to their carefree and breakneck riding style. An additional caveat was placed on the pair's morning rides: namely that they stick to the less frequented bridle paths, lest they injure an unsuspecting pedestrian or one of the other pupils, who were uniformly more sedate riders.

….

 _A sharp jolt brought Elizabeth out of her deep reminisces and face to face with the uncertain, although not altogether grim, prospect of her current journey and what might await her at its close._

Perhaps if they stayed in London long enough she might be able to re-unite with Lady Cassandra, due to return from her extended wedding trip before the spring.

The thought of Cassandra and her new husband could not help but bring a satisfied smile to Elizabeth's face. Despite her ominous pronouncements on the first day they met, Lady Cassandra had not only married, but married very well. Status and wealth, the old vanguard of values in marriage, were more than satisfied by the Duke of _, his management and that of his father before him, had kept the family holdings in robust condition in a time when many of the leading houses were in sharp decline. But more importantly, he was her match in every way.

Elizabeth did not expect the path of true love to run smooth in perpetuity: there would be disagreements and vexations aplenty, it was inevitable when two such strong personalities formed a union. But she was delighted that her friend had found a man for whom she had an abiding respect and deep affection, who likewise cherished the very aspects of Cassandra's character that made her both supremely unfashionable and a true delight.

Speaking for the first time in perhaps an hour, she looked to her husband sitting opposite and enquired brightly, "How long will we stay in London?"

….

From the moment he had followed his piqued wife into the carriage, Darcy had struggled to bring his temper under good regulation. Losing his head again would serve no purpose: he must make it clear to the girl that his will would be done, and done for the benefit of all.

The country born and raised young lady could not even begin to comprehend the ruthless games that persisted behind the glittering façade in the capital. The elegant parties, exaggerated manners and refined entertainments only served to addle the dilettante, blinding them to the plethora of schemes that lurk like crocodiles beneath the surface, ready to snap up the unwary or naïve. The new Mrs. Darcy could be nothing but a tasty morsel to these merciless predators.

He was not conceited when he acknowledged that she would have a barn sized target painted on her back, if for no other reason than she was his wife. With the distinction of succeeding where so many others failed, even with her innumerable disadvantages, resentment from various spurned ladies and their families was set to be as ferocious, and inevitable as the setting sun.

That she had come from outside the anticipated circles would likely be viewed as poaching on the Ton's exclusive reserve. That she had secured her husband by way of a love match, a still questionable and generally dangerous notion, would equally not endear her to the old guard. Well that was the story he had initiated, as the truth (or the perception of the bland facts of the truth) had the potential to create an even greater scandal broth, seasoned generously with embarrassment and hostility.

He looked at his dark haired wife, lost in her own thoughts, wearing that second rate coat and fidgeting like an unruly school boy. _Couldn't she keep still?_ He felt a headache coming on and rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. How was he to get her ready to face the hyenas? Her country manners would not fly amongst his more exalted acquaintance and any damage she might do to the Darcy name would necessarily damage Georgiana's prospects. And depending upon the seriousness of the breach could even have a lifelong impact on any issue their union might produce.

This took him down a different and not entirely unwelcome path of thought. He had been as a monk since the debacle with Celeste. The intervening months had lessened the sting of her defection, but a shadow still persisted. He had harboured a genuine affection for the young Cyprian, before the scales had been forcibly lifted from his eyes.

Even though it was indisputably necessary, Darcy had still found that such an extended period of abstinence was hardly comfortable. He shifted in his seat again and regarded his spouse as unobtrusively as permitted out of the corner of his eye, then let the air drain out of him in an impatient huff. He was not in a drawing room playing coy games with miscellaneous debutantes: he was en-route to his London residence in a private conveyance with his newly minted wife; he was undoubtedly within his rights to look at her.

What he observed was simultaneously pleasing and alarming.

She was not beautiful in the fashionable way: lately society extolled the taller woman; celebrating the long, almost mathematically perfect proportions depicted in Greek statuary. That this unspoiled blend of height, endowment and symmetry was so rarely achieved no doubt led to its appeal.

He was struck by just how tiny his new wife was: her head had stood a touch below his shoulder. If he had to describe her physique in one word, delicate or perhaps petite came to mind, for her daintiness went beyond her small stature to her very fine bone structure: small hands, neat little wrists and a refined, swan-like neck. It was a light and pleasing figure, saved from being childlike by a tantalising swell of bosom and hip.

Similarly, her facial features had the same provoking balance. The first thing you could notice were those large inky black eyes, so compellingly unusual in and of themselves; they were further accentuated by her delicately drawn brows that flicked up slightly at the outer ends, giving her features an elfin cast that bespoke mischief. Her lilliputian pointed nose and neat high cheek bones could have rendered her beauty rather nascent; and yet her full sensuous lips, deep in colour and pouty in shape, left a _man_ in no doubt that she was a _woman_.

It was not the _Au Courant_ stately countenance: lovely but distant and oft times cold. No, her features were infinitely engaging: whether she was luxuriating in the feel of the leather seat under her finger tips or swelling with indignation as she had upon boarding the Darcy family conveyance.

He had never been partial to blondes, even though like many other times in history, they were currently all the rage in high society. The wild dark curls he had noted in the chapel radiated an elemental allure; they would need to be tamed henceforth for public events, but he indulged in the idea of seeing the rich tresses strewn across his pillow.

As if sensing his fascination and the sensuous direction his thoughts, her lips tilted up in a barely perceptible smile, but as patient as a spider, she continued to look out the window, waiting several minutes before addressing him, "How long will we stay in London?"

Ah, residing in London: the dream of every country bumpkin. "My plans are not yet fixed; but you can depend on our visit being as short as can be managed," he said testily.

"Oh," was her only reply.

It was some moments later that she attempted another foray into conversation, asking if they would away to Pemberley and what the estate was like. His reply: "Yes," and "large," given in an equally terse tone, seemed a sufficient barrier to her trying to engage him again.

The remainder of the journey was conducted in silence; broken only by a curt "thank you" unenthusiastically relinquished by his wife when he handed on her down from the coach. And for his part, a similarly brusque offer of: "Tea?" which was accepted by the chit with naught more than a nod once they had arrived at their scheduled stop. He often itched with the urge to tell her to cease her infernal fidgeting, but unable to trust his temper, the complaint went unvoiced and the silence unbroken.


	4. A Gilded Bed

Chapter 3

Slowly the pastures and woods grudgingly gave way to a smattering of dwellings that increased in proportion with the decreased speed of their team of four. Traffic, hawkers and all manner of hubbub slowed their progress, and the characteristic bustle of the great city, separated by just an inch of timber and leather, seeped into the carriage.

Although the occupants of the Darcy carriage were undoubtedly united in the opinion that the uncomfortable journey could not end soon enough, Elizabeth could not be sure she was not leaping from the frying pan directly into the fire. She fervently hoped that a measure of time and space might temper her husband's ill humour; but there lurked the possibility that it was a fixed feature of his character, _what an unhappy thought!_

As they pulled up to the imposing residence, she mused that if sullenness was Mr. Darcy's wont, she would not lack for ready hiding places. The townhouse could easily fit Longbourn within its walls twice over and have room to spare.

A smart looking young footman promptly stepped down to open the conveyance door, sporting an open umbrella in his other hand. It was barely spitting but she appreciated the gesture, offering him a beatific but brief smile.

As the steel grey haired butler made a stately bow, taking their outerwear with an aura of practised efficiency, Elizabeth gained her first look at her new home. She gazed around in wide mouthed wonder; it was not awe, but a state of complete stupefaction. Her first thought was that it was exactly how she had imagined Rosings park to be, owing to Mr. Collins' excessively fulsome descriptions.

A plethora of gilt furniture from different eras and conflicting styles crowded all available spaces; the only uniting theme was in the cost of the pieces. There were all lined, one next to the other, against the walls of the foyer. The walls were painfully ostentatious too, covered as they were in a richly patterned paper and crowded with detailed artworks in equally rich gilt frames. Even the cornicing was aureate. She peeked through the doorway nearest, only to be assaulted again by the overzealous decorating. A bemused smile slid across her face _, clearly money does not equate to good taste_.

Aside from one truly heinous painting and the gaudy cloak stand, there was no evil in any of the items in and of themselves. It was the haphazard combination, the sheer volume of detail and pretentiousness that overwhelmed the senses. Like an orchestra comprised completely of soloists there was no cohesion, nowhere for the eyes to take a rest.

The décor was in stark contrast to the attire of her companion, which in some way astounded her. Not backward to give credit where it was due, Elizabeth conceded that her husband's clothing was both impeccable and understated. With a rueful glance at her own rather creased dress she wondered how he had maintained such a crisp aspect throughout their journey.

The staff stood in a v shape, awaiting the attention of their new mistress. She did not need to count their number, nineteen, the figure leapt into her head like a flash of lightening. Mr. Darcy, starting with the kitchen assistants, went on to introduce all the individuals within his employ by name and duty. She could not help but be impressed with his knowledge; yes the retainers before her were not excessive in number, even if you included the others seeing to the horses and luggage, but there would be perhaps three times this number engaged at his estate in Derbyshire and a moderate staff in his other northern estate besides. She had no doubt the fastidious man knew them all, by sight and by name.

Towards the outer edge of the formation her husband gave a warm smile before formally introducing the Darcy House Butler: Soames. Soames appeared simultaneously kind and stern, but it was her husband's mien that froze the obligatory greeting upon her lips. The grin he allowed to creep across his visage had the effect of transforming his face completely. The noble features she had found so forbidding thus far, were rendered exceedingly handsome by the hereto unseen smile: perfect white teeth, a dimple in his right cheek and a full lower lip set above a strong chin abutted by a chiselled jaw. Would that lip be firm or soft and sensuous when he kissed her? If he kissed her, she bit her lip in uncertainty.

The austere veil fell over his features once again, making her feel somewhat foolish for her momentary interlude of absurd fancy. Her husband gestured formally to a woman; Elizabeth estimated her to be somewhere in her mid or late thirties, although she could not be sure. The woman's thick chestnut hair and strong upright bearing were at odds with her heavily lined face. The placement of said lines favoured a frowning countenance: deeply etched wrinkles cut a line between her brows, and many furrows strove to make a connection between her downturned mouth and her thick chin.

Elizabeth conceived an immediate and overwhelming distaste for the woman. It was not in Elizabeth's character to condemn another before a word was even spoken, but there was something about this woman that made her hackles rise.

"This is Mrs. White; engaged to act as your personal maid", said Mr. Darcy. _Oh botheration,_ thought Elizabeth, her senses in revolt at the idea of this disconcerting woman fulfilling such an intimate role. The maid offered a curtsy to Elizabeth that was just a shade too shallow, but greeted Mr. Darcy with a decorous smile; the maid obviously knew which side her bread was buttered on. After making the obligatory how do you do, they moved onto the very last person, as yet unknown.

"And finally I present Mrs. Pearce, housekeeper here at Darcy house for over 32 years, she has been here even longer than I have and I warrant that she will have much to teach you." In a proper world it would be the mistress who did the teaching, but Elizabeth let the comment pass.

The woman bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. White but was clearly many years older and a great deal crankier. While she gave a suitably servile smile to Mr. Darcy, as soon as his back was turned the look she bestowed upon her new mistress was little better than a thinly veiled sneer. Elizabeth was on the edge of reprimanding the unwarranted display of insolence when Mrs. White said: "If you please Ma'am, we've a bath prepared for you."

Elizabeth turned warily from the hostile housekeeper, "Thank you White, a bath would be just the thing."

"We will dine in an hour," said Mr. Darcy striding toward the opposite hall.

As Mrs. White led Elizabeth up a stately flight of stairs, through a long gallery and into the family wing, she observed that the gaudy adornment persisted throughout the rest of the house. It was so at odds with the little she knew of the man himself: her husband was not only subtle in dress, but he seemed the type of man who would go to great pains to ensure all within his domain would be arranged in keeping with his exacting standards. She wondered who had decorated the residence. _His sister perhaps? No, unlikely_ : the accessories favoured the Rococo movement which would be well before the girl's time. _Perhaps his mother was still living?_ With another start she comprehended just how little she knew both of her husband and her new situation.

Stepping over the threshold to her chamber, Elizabeth realised immediately that it was testaments to the skills (or lack thereof) of the decorator, how could one take such a cavernous space and make it feel positively claustrophobic? The room favoured bold colours: the purple wallpaper, so dark as to be almost black, was superimposed with a pastoral pattern in gold and was further set off by royal blue panelling. On the floor, deep blood red wool formed the carpet. It was an awkward combination, repeated throughout the suite.

Elizabeth counted no less than eight mirrors, ranging in size from small plate sized circular looking glasses, arranged in vignettes, to an implausibly large expanse of glass panelling situated between the room's two bay windows. The scale was simply astonishing: easily five foot wide and more than double in height, and once one included the elaborate gild frame it almost reached the ceiling, stopping less than an inch from the cornicing. Elizabeth wondered what its use could be; surely it did nothing to lighten the heavy looking room. The bountiful mirrors were generously interspersed with baroque style paintings of Greek gods getting up to all sorts of mischief, that made Elizabeth's eyebrows rise.

But as she slowly turned her head, her eyes fell on the crowning glory, the very monument to bad taste: the bed. It was a monstrous thing, easily a room within itself, once the gold velvet curtains were drawn. The top front panel of the canopy depicted an eagle with colossal wings spread wide, while the lower footboard was a relief of a terrified wildebeest, presumably about to be devoured by the absurdly large eagle. Naturally the whole thing was covered in gilt: right down to every last feather on the carnivorous bird and the eyelashes of the poor terrified cattle creature. It was a decadently masculine theme, hardly conducive to a good night's rest.

Were it not for the hasty nature of their nuptials she'd be inclined to think the room a great big joke; yet an installation of such magnitude could not possibly be realised in just a few days.

It was only a few minutes past the hour when Elizabeth slipped out of her grandiose suite; she hoped that her husband would be similarly delayed and thus not vexed by her tardiness.

The bath had been a balm to her battered spirits and she had soaked overlong. This would not have been a fatal error, had not Mrs. White insisted on going through the entirety of Elizabeth's wardrobe. She seemed to take the lack of fashionable dresses in which to outfit her mistress as a personal affront. And despite Elizabeth's clear statement that, after her wedding gown, the reworked yellow silk was her best dress, Mrs. White would rummage through her luggage like a pirate looking for treasure, turning sour as a crab-apple when she comprehended the limited resources she had to work with.

Then the brass-faced woman would argue that Mrs. Darcy should have her hair done to a certain style; one that Elizabeth knew to be very unbecoming on her. "But it is the latest fashion Ma'am," White said mutinously.

Elizabeth counselled herself to patience, she took the comb from her maid's hand and speaking in a firm, but not unfriendly manner, said: "It is a fashion both uncomfortable and ridiculous; let us have less of fashion and more of style in the future."

White pursed her lips, "I would prefer to produce a hairstyle to please your husband on your first night within his home."

"What a kind thought," replied Elizabeth sweetly, "but I will have _my_ hair done according to _my_ wishes, within _my_ home."

Mr. Darcy was waiting for her in the hall, and judging by the way he jigged his left leg and the fluttering twitch in his handsome jaw she supposed she was even later than she had initially thought. Elizabeth opened her mouth to apologize but as he turned to regard her, she found herself overwhelmed by this wall of a man. Dressed in his evening attire, he was far superior to any padded dandy who had ever graced a fashion plate. Bracing his broad shoulders, he looked down upon her. It was largely a matter of proportions: the top of her coiffure did not even reach his chin, how could he help looking down his nose at her? Though she suspected there was a measure of disdain thrown in moreover. "Shall we?" he said and offered his arm stiffly.

She'd had unsettling visions of them each eating at the far end of an austere table designed to seat forty, she'd self-consciously cut her meat and the clink of cutlery would echo around the vaulted ceilings, like a scene lifted from a gothic novel. Thus Elizabeth was pleasantly surprised when he led her to an intimate family dining room. The oval dining table looked to accommodate eight comfortably and maybe ten in a pinch. He led her to the first seat on the right of the head of the table before relinquishing her arm to pull out her chair, he then sedately seated himself opposite her, rather than taking the usual master's position.

If the room itself was subdued, the meal certainly was not: four footmen carried in a parade of dishes, each one more flamboyantly presented than the last. Although the final tally on the table was perhaps eight sumptuous dishes, no-one seemed particularly astonished at the excess. Mr. Darcy merely gave a masterly nod, at which two of the footmen positioned themselves on the wings of the room while the others departed forthwith.

Elizabeth looked over the dishes wrinkling her nose at the oysters; she reached for a soup but was anticipated by the impeccably mannered footman closest to her. He stepped in to serve her a bowl, more generous than she would have thought to apportion herself. The red soup was spiced so heavily that she found herself unable to taste any of the original ingredients, and with each mouthful the flavour became increasingly cloying and unpleasant; she pushed the bowl away. She next extended her hand towards the fish, but the footman behind her husband, the very same dark haired man who had held out the umbrella on her arrival, gave a slight shake of his head. He gazed directly and pointedly at a vegetable dish, the least ornamental on the table. Elizabeth found it to be a trio of root vegetables, seasoned with a deft hand, and quite delicious in its simplicity.

Sampling a selection of the other offerings she suspected that the cook had given more attention to the appearance of the fare than to the actual taste. She noted that her husband ate sparingly also, neither touching the soup or the fish and placing but one of the dozen oysters on his plate.

When she put down her fork the footmen veritably sprang into action. A bell was rung, calling the other servants from whence they had gone. Their numbers restored, the team of four footmen nimbly proceeded to take away the barely touched dishes, replace the table cloth and lay out fresh china, serving ware, cutlery, glasses and even an alternate centrepiece; before bringing in a new array of dishes. Not as plentiful in variety as the last but nevertheless generous in helping size.

Elizabeth put a gloved hand to her mouth to hide an irreverent smile but her eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement; how ridiculous to go to all this pomp and ceremony for a meal for just two. Perhaps her life henceforth was to be characterised more as a comedy, a testament to the absurdities of the wealthy; it was less than a heady tale of romance but more than a trite penny dreadful mystery.

The kindly footman from earlier seemed to deliberately place before her a comparatively humble bowl of steamed greens and a stuffed chicken cut into neat slices. She allowed that maybe the cook was making an attempt to please the mistress; but the meal was still excessively pretentious, even for such an aim.

After her husband dined heartily on the roast beef, potatoes and glazed onions; another remove brought out an assortment of fruits, jellies and cheeses. At an inclination of Mr. Darcy's head the remaining footmen departed, leaving the couple alone in the dining room.

The serious business of eating over, her husband finally addressed her: "I have prepared a summary of the events I have accepted invitations to. I have kept to the larger soirées, at homes and balls principally. I think the scrutiny over your origins will be somewhat ameliorated by the excitement of the larger crowd; thereby giving you the opportunity to acquit yourself sufficiently well until you understand your position better." The speech was delivered with no malice in his tone despite the offense inherent in the message.

"Key amongst these is Lady Matlock's ball, she may even declare the ball given in honour of our marriage; and yet the importance of the Killcott's ball and Lady Jersey's at home should not be underestimated. The knocker will remain off the door for the time being. We will spend the next two weeks here alone, ostensibly on our honeymoon, but in truth I will be training you vigorously with regards to the proper comportment expected of Mrs. Darcy. My family will be invited here for a private dinner so that you might meet them prior to your public debut." His eyes roved over her, his look flat. "I think a curtailed season will be sufficient this year, we will away to Pemberley before the typical London exodus. Once there we will engage in a more comprehensive training schedule to prepare you for Georgiana's debut. If I were to engage a governess come companion for you it would occasion too much talk, so we'll have to muddle through together; I expect you to apply yourself diligently."

He looked at her as if expecting an answer, though no question was asked. What a pompous overbearing man! He had not troubled himself to ask anything about her past, but here he was: pronouncing her unsuitable to be unleashed on _his_ social scene, like some half savage beast. Her breath came fast and erratic as she looked down at the table.

The bated pause continued until he said: "Well?"

Elizabeth lifted her head to fix her gaze onto her husband's stern face, doing her best to hold onto to her temper. She was not completely successful, as her voice trembled slightly with anger when she replied. "My apologies, I thought you would supply me with the desired response. Since you seem to have planned my life out for me in advance, I am sure you will provide me with an almanac detailing every reaction I should have to situations in the future. Pray sir, will you tell me how long I should spend at my toilette tomorrow, what is your prescribed method for donning my pelisse and would you clarify: am I to give birth to our first child on a Thursday preferably after luncheon or would a Monday evening be more to your liking?"

A wave of crimson made its way up her husband's face, while he digested her severe words, "Madam you forget yourself."

"No, you forget yourself, I am your wife not your chattel. You cannot order me about, ride me like you would a horse." At this rather unfortunate simile, she stuttered herself to a blushing stop.

"Yes you are my wife, and unlike my belongings, horses or even servants you cannot be dismissed. But I belong to you also; therefore your behaviour reflects on me and mine. It may even have the power to ruin the reputation of my family name." He stood up rather abruptly, "You will meet me immediately after breakfast tomorrow to collect your pin money and discuss your wardrobe."

During his speech Elizabeth was looking everywhere but at her irate husband. She had promised her aunt (most faithfully) that she would try to be understanding of her husband's difficult position and yet here she was giving saucy speeches not eight hours later.

"Why not now?" asked she, in a much milder tone. The severe provocation notwithstanding, she was a lady and would act thus.

"We have marital business to attend to." – here he paused. "Would an hour be sufficient time for you to prepare, that is - if I may come to you tonight," he had added the request albeit belatedly. Embarrassed at her earlier outburst, she agreed, without joy but with grim resolve, that she would see him in an hour.

….

Darcy retreated to his new bedchamber. Up until this point he had not seen much sense in occupying the master's chambers and instead had kept to the generous suite allocated to him in his youth, refurbished to his tastes upon his graduation.

 _But by the Lord; his mother's decorating was gaudy_ , thank goodness Pemberley had been left largely as it was, during her time as mistress. The few improvements she had made were selected with a view to pleasing his father and his penchant for elegant simplicity, rather than gratifying her own rather splashy style.

Darcy had hoped that the new Mrs. Darcy, when he found her, would be able to take the decorating in hand; so he did nothing beyond maintenance for many years. Now he would have to cease procrastinating and tackle the furniture emporium his house had become: it must be prepared for the increased entertaining commensurate with Georgiana's launch into society.

He could not trust the chit to do it! He threw his cravat onto the bed and slumped into a rock hard and ugly armchair. _What could he trust her with?_ It forcefully struck him that he now had a wife. _A wife!_ Residing in the mistress's chambers, waiting for him to come and claim his marital rights. He stalked over to his bedside table to pour himself another brandy, knocking it back with nary a though to savouring such a fine vintage in his desperation to fortify himself for the looming decision.

He returned to the question he had pondered during much of the journey from Longbourn to London. _Who is the new Mrs. Darcy and what the devil am I to do with her?_

He mentally catalogued the few facts he had of her, woefully few in number and bleak in picture. Her age: somewhere in the region of nineteen to one and twenty. From the horses own mouth he had learnt how she had spurned her cousin's addresses; and judging by Mr. Collins' vitriol, her refusal had been vehement.

It was always said that the Bennets were blessed (or cursed, depending on the perspective) with five beautiful daughters. Yet after two months in the small neighbourhood attending many events to which the Bennet family were also guests, Darcy had never laid eyes upon the mysterious fifth sister.

Miss Mary Bennet had mentioned her just the once during their sojourn at Netherfield. That he remembered the incident at all was a testament to the unusual reaction of the guests. After supper, Caroline Bingley had derided Mary Bennet her choice of reading over joining the table for a game of whist. Miss Mary had replied with a thin smile "Although I read more than some, I would not call myself a great reader, unlike my Papa or my Sister Elizabeth. Mama always used to say that Lizzie's appetite for books would send us all to the poor house". It was an improper disclosure, to be sure, but said with such a sense of longing that had Darcy found himself intrigued. Despite his usual reticence he had asked "And has your sister long to wait to be introduced to society?"

Miss Mary favoured him with an odd look before dropping her gaze back to her book. "She is already out." Miss Bingley ever alert to anything that might discredit the Bennet family as a means to cooling her brothers ardour for Miss Jane Bennet; glanced up from her card game, fixing her scrutiny on the girl, but a series of probing questions produced only monosyllabic and vague answers; before Miss Mary declared she would retire early to check on Jane's wellbeing.

Expecting Jane to be a much easier mark, Miss Bingley brought the topic up when she ventured down from the sick room for breakfast. The sweet Miss Bennet, even weakened by illness, was still remarkably tight lipped, admitting only that her next younger sister had been from home for some time, and that she missed her greatly. Although tickled by the local mystery; no doubt due to the absence of other entertainment, neither Darcy himself nor Caroline Bingley were curious enough to overcome their distaste of associating with the members of the Bennet family who could be more easily pumped for information, like the shrill Mrs. Bennet or the rowdy Lydia Bennet.

The carriage ride had offered nothing to challenge his preconceived, if limited, notions of his wife. Her enquiries regarding town and his estate evinced her mercenary nature. Bingley, bless his naïve soul, had supposed it all to be just a terrible mistake in the fall out of the ball. But Darcy knew better: it was just all too neatly done to be happenstance.

Furthermore, her pithy retort at dinner had been troubling, it demonstrated an unstable temper. Darcy could own that his handling of the luggage issue had been less than diplomatic and despite having upwards of three hours in which to make his apologies he had stubbornly held his tongue.

So what did he know about the girl? The answer of was course, nothing really. What should he do about her? He fancied that he could hear her breathing through the wall, but it was an asinine notion: their chambers were separated by a thick walled and generously proportioned sitting room. Darcy clasped his hands behind his neck and slanted his head up to stare pensively at the ceiling: _would it be wise to get a child on her when she was such an unknown quantity?_

 _How much of a child was a product of his parents and how much his upbringing?_ Georgiana was the very image of his mother in looks but with her shy demeanour she was the antithesis of Anne Darcy's confident and sometimes brash personality. George Wickham had been educated alongside Darcy and yet the high spirited youth had grown into an unqualified reprobate. Darcy had also witnessed many of his contemporaries, even those from eminently respectable families, slip into lives of dissipation.

The pin prick of guilt at his own amorous pursuits assailed him, but he reasoned that while he had engaged in relations outside the sacred bonds of wedlock, he had seduced no innocents, nor made a cuckold of any man. He had confined his attentions to merry widows and a well-compensated professional inamorata.

The conclusion was that life was not perfect; there were no guarantees to be found in it either. He expeditiously striped off his clothing, throwing a banyan over his nakedness. If they were blessed with a babe he would simply do his best to raise the child right; for what man could do more?

Darcy strode through the vast shared sitting room, his momentum carrying him right up to her bedchamber door. Lifting his curled fist to rap on the door, he stalled, shaking his head. Instead of knocking, his hand descended to the handle, silently slipping the door open.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower light, and what he saw caused a small band of pity to constrict his heart. On the far side of the room she sat, barely illuminated by the fire and the shy glow of one tiny candle. Feet up on the window seat, her head lay forlornly on her knees, her bare arms hung crossed over her shins and the little hands attached rested limp on her ankles.

The poise was agonizingly elegant to look upon, had it been captured in charcoal or on canvas he had no doubt it would be proclaimed a masterpiece, every line of her daintily boned figure dripped with melancholy. It would be the type of study more suited to be displayed in a gallery than a home, for who would willingly invite such a spectre of despair across their threshold? Not him certainly: marriage was a life-long business and he would do well to consider what he would reap in the future should due care not be taken this night.

It struck Darcy that she was so very young. Her curtail of long hair flowed down her back in a mass of curls, and he could see her little toes peeping out from under her dress. He suspected she may have been crying, but her body was eerily still, with her face turned towards the gauzy curtain.

Darcy was positive he had made no sound, but her head turned slowly to regard him. Even from ten paces he could see those fine eyes brimming with regret and sadness; though curiously no tears.

His resolve was no match for that soulful stare, he started to bow, intending to make his apologies and beat a hasty retreat to his own chambers, when in a fluid motion she leapt up from her perch on the window seat, walking to stand halfway betwixt him and the bed.

His mouth went completely dry. Rooted to the spot he stared in complete rapture at her figure, barely concealed by the sheer garment. Perfect, perfect, perfect; his mind chanted but he did not, could not, utter a word. After what felt like hours but was in all probability seconds, his legs seemed to re-discover the power of movement and he began to edge back through the doorway.

In her magnificence she glided further, closing the distance between them. The light and pull of the fabric played on her gentle curves, sending his senses reeling. Seeing the direction of his hungry gaze, she looked down at her own form and gave a self-conscious blush. Darcy saw her body tremble and he imagined her nipples hardened when caressed by his intent scrutiny.

He looked over her head, trying to regain his customary self-possession; but in an unanticipated move of boldness she touched his cheek, drawing his regard to back down to her own countenance. He found it to be devoid of emotion, those occasionally candid eyes resuming their guard over her inner thoughts, but the slight tremor in her hand belied her otherwise flawless display of confidence.

"One of the few joys we can derive from this union is in the making of a child." She said solemnly, her lambent eyes gripping his attention.

Darcy shook his head, trying to find the words to express the tangle of emotions and sensations that plagued him: the rising and subsiding anger, the stab of pity, his well-earned wariness and most of all the overwhelming dangerous desire that raged within his breast. It was a hopeless endeavour, how could he communicate what he wanted, when he was not even certain himself of his course of action?

His wife's lips tugged up at the corner and the corresponding eyebrow rose in an endearingly arch manner: "Besides, I hear it is the one thing us country girls excel at… _a good roll in the hay_."

When her tongue peeked out to wet her pouty pink lips he was undone. He would be gentle, he would be kind, but he would have her! He swept the impertinent girl up into his arms, making a beeline for the bed, where he anticipated to spend some hours.


	5. Last Night

**A/N: With the help of the amazing Lenniee, my chapters past and future will be much more polished, which I hope will lead to a better reading experience for you my dear readers. One small drawback is that I may take a little longer to update than I would like (at least until we finish bringing chapter 1 and chapter 2 up to scratch). I also have to credit LMFG for being such a great sounding board for plot lines, and again to Lenniee for helping me better understand where I am not clearly communicating said plot points.**

 **If I have not said so already, then I'd to take this opportunity to state that although this work (Reluctantly Mrs. Darcy) is inspired by the timeless Jane Austen classic, the rights to this specific work are reserved to the author, and that any unauthorised reproduction or publishing of any part of content is prohibited.**

 **Warning: This chapter does contain content of a sexual nature; the acts** **are** **consensual.**

 **Well without further ado, here is Chapter 4:**

Elizabeth lifted a lazy arm over her eyes in a dreamy attempt to block the nefarious beam of sunshine intent on bursting her delicious lassitude. She rolled over, nestling her head within the pillow. A half-forgotten scent tickled her pert nose; she leant into it, inhaling deeply, trying to place the warm, earthy smell. On the third pass of the fabric, she snatched the recollection from the recesses of her mind. Her eyes shot open, closely followed by a jerk in her body, that bought her to sit upright: all thoughts of sleep vanished with the dispatch of picnic goers fleeing an encroaching storm.

Her stare unerringly found the door, not the entrance to the hall or the mirrored portal to her dressing room. Her gaze was riveted to the aperture through which her naked husband had departed some hours earlier. She resisted the urge to throw a pillow, a book or even a few priceless artefacts at the detestable closed expanse of mahogany.

A click, clearly audible in the otherwise silent chamber, caused Elizabeth's head to whip around and she made a grab for the heavy silver candle holder beside her bed. The intruder was not her husband, but White. The sour faced woman bustled into the room, without so much as a by your leave, shooting Elizabeth a look of exasperation.

"This is no time for you to be lazing about in bed. Breakfast has been set out for over an hour and the Master is expecting you imminently. I thought you'd be up already."

The mention of her husband sent the blood pounding in Elizabeth's ears. "Did you not think it your duty to awaken me?" she said with a steely calm at odds with her inner distress. "If we are in such an abysmal rush, why is my bathwater not ready or my maid present to assist me with my morning toilette?"

"I was pressing those awful dresses of yours, right from the wee hours. And how was I to know you'd be wanting a bath this morning as well? Pouring a bath is a great deal of work, you know."

Elizabeth's lips thinned. Surely if there was a time to enjoy a second bath, post a woman's wedding night would be it. "I think that if the house is sufficiently staffed to put on that pageant at dinner last night, providing morning baths should prove no great strain on our resources. Moreover, on the topic of challenges let me make myself clear: I will not abide insubordination or insolence. Should you elect to continue in this vein, do not doubt that I will dismiss you without a reference."

This speech had the opposite effect to which Lizzy had intended. The woman did not cower, but rather smirked audaciously. "You'll find that I have been engaged by your husband, Ma'am, and I have been directed to work under the supervision of my sister, Mrs. Pearce. My role is to ensure your appearance is everything it should be for a lady of your rank, not facilitate your creature comforts and low whims." White's expression turned thoughtful.

Elizabeth glanced down at her clenched fists and flexed her jaw. "Arrange a bath to be drawn as soon as possible. I will take a breakfast tray here."

"But what about the Master?"

"The Master can go to Jericho for all I care!"

Upon White's departure, Elizabeth scrubbed her hands over her face. She had never raised her voice to a servant in anger before, but she had never met with such audacity before. Had Elizabeth not experienced the maid's cheek first hand, she would have never credited such an attitude to be authentic.

Elizabeth did her best to still her trembling before the indomitable maid returned, breakfast in hand. Her success was limited, as she spilled a few drops of tea on the counterpane, triggering a snort of derision from White, but she mentally defied anyone to do better, in the face of such extreme upheaval and without a sympathetic ally in sight.

Once the bath was drawn, Elizabeth sent Mrs. White to fetch a ribbon from the bedside table: it was a fool's errand. As soon as her maid's somewhat ample posterior had passed through the door Elizabeth slammed it shut, flipping the lock with relish. The maid made a rain of pounding fists, more against the frame than the actual door which sported costly and no doubt fragile mirrored panels.

Elizabeth smiled at White's muffled threats and began to undress. Despite their nocturnal activities the scandalous night gown had not been damaged; nevertheless she would rather die than wear it again. Elizabeth threw her aunt's gift into a corner of the room and eased herself into the steaming water, wincing slightly when she submerged her nether regions. The water was just a shade short of searing, but she luxuriated in the stinging feeling, and felt some of the anger and distress drain out of her taut frame. The rapping had thankfully stopped; she would enjoy the peace and solitude while it lasted.

With an indulgent smile she wondered how much of the message to her husband White had related. Probably the whole thing, nasty old bat. The unconscious phraseology brought a pang to Elizabeth's weary heart. She missed Cassandra with an ache that was so severe to be almost a physical sensation. She desperately needed her dearest friend who was closer to her than any of her sisters could ever be. There was no-one else she could tell about last night.

 _Ah last night_. Elizabeth felt uncharacteristic tears welling in her eyes, but rather than suppressing them like she had on so many other occasions, she let them flow. Last night had been amazing and destroying. She looked down at her naked body through the water; it didn't seem any different to her eyes, but she felt like a different person, both worldly and uncertain at the same time.

When her husband had scooped her up, apprehension had been the overriding emotion in her heart, but if she was brutally honest with herself, there had also been a frisson of anticipation. She had wanted to discover for herself the mysteries of the secret rite, that transformative act which separated wives from maidens and endowed them with that knowing look she had seen so often.

Her husband had begun touching her through the gossamer thin fabric of her gown, seeming to measure the portions of her body for some unknowable purpose. He had splayed his large hands around the sides of her hips, slipping them upwards until his fingers and thumbs had almost come to meet, completely encasing the small of her waist. Continuing the ascending exploration, she'd looked away when he had cupped and squeezed her breasts, but gasped in shock at the acute sensation produced by his rubbing both of his thumbs over her sensitised nipples. He'd growled then, reading in her trembling body an involuntary assent. The transparent nightgown had been pulled up over her head in a frantic urgency and thrown aside, swiftly followed by his long dressing gown, the garments mingling in a heap on the floor just beyond the bed.

He had then pushed his whole form up against her own, rubbing against her with the sensual abandon of a cat, merging her soft curves against his hard planes. She had found herself revelling in the dizzying sensations and mewed in disappointment when he withdrew. He had not gone far, just putting sufficient distance between them to strategically lay siege to each part of her inflamed flesh.

He had proceeded to kiss, nip and tease her body into a fever pitch. Even in the boiling water, Elizabeth blushed to think of the many liberties he had taken with her form and her willing complaisance with all of his desires. She shook her head. It would not do, she could not lie to herself. Willing was hardly the term: she had been incontrovertibly ravenous for his touch, pushing herself into his large hands and against his firm body.

When he had finally made her his, the pain had lasted but a second before she was overwhelmed with the exquisite sensation of fullness.

He had stopped to enquire if she was well; cupping her cheek with one hand while balancing on the other. He'd hovered above her immobile, an earnest expression on his handsome face. Too shy to nod, let alone ask him to proceed, as she so desperately wanted, she had gently squeezed his hips with her own thighs.

It was all the signal he needed. With a shuddering groan he had begun to move within her. The indescribable friction was completely incompatible with the idea of lying still and thinking of England, the very puritan advice Mrs. Phillips had given her on the eve of her nuptials. The rousing pull of her husband's manhood had drawn involuntary moans from Elizabeth's throat and caused a pulsing pressure to build at the point of their meeting. He had emitted a few husky broken cries of his own, presumably reaching his completion not long thereafter.

She had experienced her own nirvana during their second coupling, as he had guided her on top of him. In the cold light of day she was mortified by her own behaviour, but at the time nothing had felt more right than moving in that primal rhythm with him. His fingers had pleasantly massaged her hips while she had ridden him, the grip becoming more firm as he had urged her to increase her pace, pushing his shaft up into her core furiously. Then he had touched some magic place within her womanhood that had engulfed her in a wave of pleasure so strong it was as pain.

The sensation of shattering into a thousand pieces had come again the third and final time he had made love to her.

She sat up in the high walled tub, tucking her knees up to her chest as her silent tears escalated into gulping sobs.

He had worshipped her body that last time, touching each part of her with a heart-warming reverence.

He had kissed her so very sweetly; she had thought for a moment that perhaps despite the circumstances she would be fortunate in her marriage. How could something so sublimely beautiful possibly be wrong?

After tracing her entire face with his lips, he had lovingly teased her mouth open, and massaged her tongue with his own. Although their mouths had been only place they were touching, the slow burn of yearning had spread, creating that ache deep within her that she now knew only he could quell.

When she had given a soft sigh he had startled her by flipping her onto her stomach and placed a plush pillow under her hips. Leaning into the soft bed, she had affected a relaxed pose while her virile husband had made a leisurely progress up her figure: caressing the soles of her feet, nuzzling the back of her knees, nipping the round globes of her bottom. The sharp pinches had shocked her at first, but with each bite he had paused to rub his face back and forth to soothe the little sting. When he had reached her neck, lavishing it with firm kisses and breathing hoarsely into her ear, he had also slipped his hot member back into her womanly passage from behind. She'd bucked against him, desperate to get closer, but he had put a hand upon her hip, holding her down so he could draw in and out with agonising sweetness.

Just as she had been on the cusp of falling over that beautiful precipice he had withdrawn, leaving her feeling utterly bereft and quietly voicing her disappointment. Barely pausing, he had used his wide, strong hands to turn her body over, only to commence the whole amorous process again, concentrating his seductive campaign consisting of firm hands and soft mouth on the front half of her body.

By the time he had finally entered her again they were both quaking with desire, he was perhaps more rough than before, his powerful thrusts jostling her whole body, but she found it to be the perfect foil to his earlier restraint. It had taken but a handful of deep, long strokes and they both tumbled into oblivion in concert: her hands buried in his hair and his face immersed in the halo of her ebony curls.

After the pinnacle, he had continued to touch her, tucking her body against his own and her head into a little nook in his shoulder, which seemed to have been designed perfectly by God to cradle it. She had not uttered a single coherent sentence. In fact, not a word had been spoken since that strained enquiry on their first union. There was no call to break the spell of their intimacy with words; there would be more than enough time for that later, a lifetime actually. He had tenderly twirled her loose curls around his finger, made lazy circles on her shoulder until she had fallen into a peaceful doze.

When she had awoken he was looking at her, admiring her. His languorous smile, ten times more beautiful than the quick grin she had seen earlier in the day, had been full and carefree.

His form, like her own, was sprawled over the counterpane in a relaxed and contented state of idleness. Standing out in vivid detail in the dim light of the fire she noticed some of the contrasts in their bodies: the dusting of hair across his chest, soft and curly under her fingers; her slim thigh, resting against his muscled flank; and that part that made him uniquely male, so alien to her, but strangely handsome. She had stretched then, feeling an answering echo in her husband's body, still pushed up against her own all along the one side.

Marital duties were certainly a physical pursuit: she wondered if it were possible to engage in them a fourth time. Whether they could or not was an unknown to her: but the one thing that was certain was that she wanted to, most fervently. Laying her head on his chest she coyly peeked up at his face through her curtain of tangled curls, trying to convey with her eyes that which she was too timid to request with words.

"I think we will be spending a great deal of tomorrow in bed, Mrs. Darcy," he had said with an ease she could not even have imagined the previous morning. It was inconceivable that it had been less than a day since they had stood at the altar, united in despising each other, and now they were laying together without a stitch of clothing between them. Feeling very bold, she had got up on her knees to loom over him, and planted a kiss on his jaw. When his hand had reached up to stroke her hip, she'd had no doubt that their sensuous thoughts were once again in accord.

Against his open mouth she had teased: "I thought our aim tomorrow was to begin the process of getting me more appropriately attired, Sir. You will have to allow me at least one visit to the modiste before you confine me to this room indefinitely." His body had instantly stiffened underneath her, and he had pushed her firmly away. Elizabeth had watched in bewilderment as he had sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had continued to sit there, his feet barely brushing the floor, spine curved, pressing the heels of his palms tightly into his eye sockets.

She had started to fear that maybe she had hurt him. In spite of those last few hours, the workings of the male body were still largely a mystery to her; mayhap she had inadvertently jostled some vital area of his anatomy? Elizabeth had warily laid a hand on his back but he had shrugged her off, his movements furious. Jumping to his feet, he had walked away from the bed. He had not even looked at her, but had snatched up his discarded banyan and continued in his storming trajectory towards the door, still naked as the day he was born.

Before exiting he had turned, unleashing a scathing look upon her uncovered form. It had hit her with all the force of a physical blow. Elizabeth had snatched up a pillow to cover her own nakedness as he had said: "We will meet immediately after breakfast to discuss the provisions for your wardrobe. Tardiness will not be tolerated. And for heaven's sake, get yourself some more modest nightgowns!"

Her body shook as she relived his swift and brutal dismissal. Reclining back into the bath she splashed the water, once, twice, three times in pique. For a brief shining interlude she had thought there could be more between them. She did not know what to make of his mercurial shift in mood, but it had wounded her greatly. Elizabeth owned that her Aunt had never steered her wrong before, but there was a first time for everything under heaven.

The shame swirled around her chest like an acid. She had actively participated in the act, thrown herself into it with wanton abandon, and he had taken everything from her. And once his desire was sated he had walked away from her in revulsion.

The powerlessness was crushing. Her married state left no other recourse open but to revert back to her previous reserve; she could not and would not deny him his rights: she would be a compliant wife but she could not be an affectionate one. She would be wary and observe her husband, maybe she would be able to determine a method to live alongside him peaceably. It was the wisest course of action, but not the easiest. That she would be unable to trust him in intimate moments she had no doubt; the sensual abandon she had foolishly indulged in was destined never to be repeated. But her troublesome temper she could not vouch for, the idea of letting a bully have their way was an anathema to her. Yet she must concede that there was no reprieve on the horizon: Mr. Darcy for better or worse now had legal dominion over her for the rest of her life, there must be a point where ideals were supplanted by good survival instinct.

A sound at the other side of the door alerted her to White's return - Elizabeth submerged her head fully to drown out the inevitable rapping that would follow. She felt an acute urge to cling to her privacy, to just a few moments more of introspection and peace.

She opened her eyes to look up at the ceiling through the veil of water, letting a bubble slip through her lips to mar the perfect surface in a rippling pattern. She was just about to release another when a face loomed above the tub, not her maid's, but the tight lipped visage of Mr. Darcy.

She saw him plunge his hands into the water, felt him grasp her upper harms tightly and commence to pull her out. In a fit of irrationality she resisted. It was an undeniably stupid response for she was quickly running out of breath. Despite her struggles, with his superior strength and long reach, he hauled her to the surface. She took great gulping breaths while he shook her: there was no anger or real force on the movement, and his face, mere inches from her own and liberally splashed with bath water, registered more distress than anything else. She stared at him in a numb trance, trying to make sense of his frantic utterings.

Stealing a glance back at the water, she was forcefully reminded of her own exposed vulnerability. She shook away his unwelcome touch pushing at his arms, and squawked at him to turn his back at once.

"Give me your word that you will keep your head above the water and I will oblige you in turning away."

She held his stare for a handful of seconds, the sparkle in her eyes as sharp as daggers, before nodding.

"Your word Madam, I will have it."

"Very well, I promise," she said seething.

He turned but did not depart, holding out a towel behind him. She crept very warily from the copper tub, balancing on the balls of her feet, poised for flight, and wrapped the large bath sheet around her body. "Feel at liberty to leave Sir, I have no further need of your assistance, in point of fact I did not require it in the first place."

She watched him start to turn his head again, his lips moving unsteadily. "Keep your back turned, Sir!"

"So shy? One would think modesty a scarce commodity..… after last night." Ignoring her firm direction, he continued his rotation until he was looking at her squarely, fully attired while she stood wrapped in nothing but a wet towel.

Elizabeth blushed right up to the roots of her hair; the heat of anger permeating her whole being. The effrontery: how dare he mock her? With time to think over their recent encounter, she had reached the conclusion that he was not a man without experience. The way he had manipulated her body, causing her to forget herself, had spoken of a long and familiar indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh. Who was he to judge her?

She wanted to throttle him and simultaneously burst into tears. Instead she drew herself up to her full height, giving him a look so loaded with disdain she thought her face might crack with it. "Am I not permitted even a modicum of privacy? Will this be the way of it? You making yourself free with my suite, even my dressing room, not to mention my own body, with no consideration for my feelings and wishes?" Her voice broke slightly on the last sentence.

Her husband wore a peculiar expression. His mouth hung open, but his eyes were narrowed in a shape that indicated deep suspicion. His chest swelled with a long breath, considering her words before he nodded in reluctant acknowledgement, but held up his hand. "You made a solemn vow to obey me in all things, _Mrs. Darcy_. I intend to hold you to that vow in the ordering of our life together. I will be the one in control, for your own benefit even more than mine." She bristled at his pointed use of her new name, but he was not finished. In a noticeably kinder tone he added, "You are correct, your own rooms should be your sanctuary. If you ever wish me to leave or likewise would prefer to refrain from marital relations, it will require but a word from you and I will subside. You have my _solemn_ promise on that score."

 _A grand concession indeed_ , thought Elizabeth as Mr. Darcy shouted for White, who was presumably waiting in the outer hall. "I want her dressed and brought to my study within the hour, do you understand?" Mrs. White nodded grimly.

With a curt bow to his wife and an equally brief nod to her maid, he quit the room in a long confident stride, the undisputed master of his domain.

…..


	6. Disclosures and Schemes

**A/N: A big thanks to everyone who has Followed/Favorited/Reviewed so far. You keep me writing, even when I should be doing the washing instead.**

 **My biggest thanks to Lenniee who makes me and the story so much better.**

 **Hope you like the new chapter. And if you do, don't forget to leave a review.**

Darcy furiously sorted the papers on his desk. To a uniformed onlooker he would appear the very picture of industrious energy, but in reality he was creating aberrant chaos, randomly dismantling the structure he had taken great pains to organise prior to dinner yesterday evening and again this morning.

He braced his hands on the desk, quaking with a heady combination of emotion and suppressed desire. It was that girl that had brought chaos into his life! He wondered how he could have forgotten everything he had ever learnt of scheming females.

 _Elizabeth_ , he tasted the seductive syllables of her Christian name in his thoughts as he recalled their wedding night.

There was not a doubt in his mind that his wife had come to him unspoiled as he had both felt and seen the evidence of her broken maidenhead. Aside from that, she had been as ripe as a cherry in July, ready to be plucked from the tree and devoured.

His wife had met each of his advances with an untutored passion so overwhelming he had unravelled much too early on that first pass. During the second congress he had given her the lead, and had watched her ride him with a raw sensuous joy that had veritably singed his blood.

Her body, while a bit short and a mite too spare for fashion, was nevertheless Darcy's idea of perfection: fine elegant lines complemented by a soft and welcoming swell of hips and crowned by that peerless pert bosom. _What would such a creature be like once she had learnt the skills to match her innate enthusiasm?_ The thought had stirred him into a repetition of their amorous activities.

Taking his leisure, Darcy had explored her complete topography front and back, noting the firm musculature under the petal soft skin and womanly curves. He had provoked her, teased her, drawing her out and then backing away, until she had been completely ruled by her fledgling amative instincts.

Exhausted by their exploits, she had snuggled into him with the innocent pleasure of a sleepy kitten, but looking upon her exposed form and remembering all they had enjoyed thus far, sleep was a quarry that had persistently eluded him. Rather he had lain there, in a state of painful arousal, waiting for her to stir.

His desire, subdued but not defeated, had surged again when she had awoken and stretched in languorous splendour. The quick study had run her fingers over him in a blatantly suggestive manner, and Darcy had been mesmerised by the sight of her eyes peeking through her tangled hair. They were casually seductive, begging him to make love yet again, an entreaty he had been only too happy to fulfil. But on the edge of his mind had hovered a memory, tickling his senses, like the unease one felt when standing too close to a precipice. Another pair of eyes, grey, not dark, which had mimicked such an expression for their own gain, rather than in the innocent pursuit of gratification.

When Elizabeth had leant over him, her bosom swaying intoxicatingly, he had found himself transported to that house in Chelsea, where he had been caught completely unawares. The fear had crystallised with choking clarity when his wife, the bold seductress, had hinted that her favours were dependant on the procurement of a new wardrobe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why had he let his guard down?

Why had he been foolish enough to trust another conniving woman?

He had instinctively fled her influence and his own naïve folly. After quitting her room he had spent what seemed a lifetime pacing, thinking and pacing.

Although Elizabeth could not abandon him in the manner his mistress had, her charms could still cause irreparable damage to his life, to his standing and to his very sanity. He would not be controlled, led by his urgings like some callow youth.

When she did not come down for an early breakfast as he had specifically instructed, he had known that he would have to be firm. He would show her that he was master of himself, and without any doubt the dictator in this union.

His resolve had been imminently and thoroughly tested when he'd pulled her from the bath tub just a few minutes before, her slick, beautiful body squirming in his grasp.

What had she been doing? She'd seemed simultaneously vulnerable and utterly seductive. He had wanted to cradle her, protect her and spend the next week ravishing her over and over again.

He suspected the incitement of such warring emotions had been her design, but reining in his baser impulses, he had countered as coolly as he was able. Judging by her own sharp reaction, she had been convinced and offended by his indifference, but by God, the restraint had cost him dearly, continued to cost him dearly…..

Darcy slammed his fist down on the table in a hammer motion, watching the papers jump in a most satisfying manner. A loud gasp caused him to look up. His wife stood framed in the open doorway.

Her still damp hair was tied back from her face, a face that was alert, wary and lovely. He impatiently waved at her to enter. She advanced slowly into the room, like a cautious doe, ready to take flight at the least disturbance.

He circled around the desk to pull out a chair for her. As his proximity increased, so did her apprehension; she even flinched when he indicated where she ought to be seated.

"I would rather stand, thank you," she said, clinging to a contrary stance despite her evident fear.

"Would it cost you anything to take a seat?" he retorted.

"Would it cost you anything to let me stand?" was her crisp reply. In increments she seemed to regain her confidence with each word spoken. She pulled back her shoulders and raised a dark eyebrow in challenge.

"Perhaps," he replied enigmatically.

Reaching behind him, Darcy picked up the clipped papers pertaining to the marriage settlement betwixt the two of them. When she reached her hand out he held them aloft, just beyond reach, before relinquishing them to her grasp.

He surreptitiously watched her quickly peruse the figures on each page, weighing her reactions. Darcy was caught off guard when she merely raised her eyebrows at the paltry sum that had been settled upon her. He had anticipated with dastardly satisfaction the tears and recriminations that would greet his fairly miserly allocation of a mere £3,000 settlement and a pathetic jointure of £200 per annum to be paid to her in the event of his death until her own demise or her remarrying. Her split-second expression of surprise actually made him feel a tiny bit ashamed of his pettiness.

"Please, what is this last page?" she said.

Darcy was astonished at the speed with which she had consumed the legal document, but perhaps she had been merely skimming. "It is a clause that was requested by your uncle, stating that all outside assets and income that come into your name during the term of our marriage remain your exclusive property both during the marriage and after it."

"I have never seen such a provision before. Is it a common inclusion in marriage contracts?"

"Do you read contracts for fun then? Most women prefer novels," he said, faintly mocking.

A gentle furrow appeared between her graceful brows as she looked down at the sheet again in uncertainty. He gave a huff. "Don't worry; I am sure it is iron clad. Your uncle is a shrewd man, and more than a little bit pushy. The paltry £50 a year from your father will be safe from me."

She pursed her lips, looking at him levelly. Searching for the meaning of that look, his gaze sought her oft times expressive eyes and to his disbelief found pity in them. She was gazing upon him with pity! He crossed his arms defensively.

She began to voice another question uncertainly. "You mentioned a schedule of events?"

"Oh, yes of course." He handed her the two-page list of social engagements, written in a neat close hand. She efficiently cross referenced the events against her allocation of pin money, flinching, then she consulted both sheets again. His wife bit her lip and looked up at him; her face now instead of radiating pity seemed configured to inspire it.

Pre-empting her entreaty Darcy said, "You will have to hope your father is prompt with his payment of your annuity."

"Papa is never prompt in settling accounts, and some he forgets altogether."

"That is a rather disrespectful thing to say about your father."

"Perhaps it is, but I assure you it is accurate."

Darcy edged a little closer to Elizabeth, flaring his nostrils to take in the delicate honeysuckle scent of her. "Ask me for more money and you shall have it, just this once, mind."

"No, thank you. I will make do with the funds allocated. I do have some clothing."

He looked over her gown critically. It was a pretty dress, the subdued yellow suited her colouring, but there was no getting around the fact that it was a simple gown. It lacked the adornment one would expect of the Mistress of Pemberley, and within the upper crust everything rode on appearances. "I apologise for my harsh words yesterday. You must have known that your dresses, even if you had kept them, would not have been suitable for your new station, and you must also know that your monthly £30 is barely sufficient to cover a quarter of what you shall require. Allow me to supplement it."

"If you knew the amount to be insufficient, why did you nominate such a sum? Are we in financial trouble?"

"No," he responded, "We are quite well to grass."

That pity was back in her eyes again, with a measure of disappointment written like a footnote across her features. He felt increasingly shabby about the way he had handled the marriage settlement. He could have easily settled ten times as much upon her without even missing it, but he'd prevaricated that as she brought nothing she ought to expect nothing. While he had been angry at the time, these sums represented her infinitesimally small measure of independence while married and the very bedrock of her security should she be widowed.

He pattered around the large desk once more, avoiding her eyes while putting the coins representing her pin money into a plain leather pouch.

Darcy was totally affronted when upon handing her the pouch she stepped forward and upended the coins onto his desk. He could not believe she was going to be so vulgar as to count the money in his very presence.

She rapidly sifted out fifteen gold guineas and a silver crown, and stacked them into a precise little pile before sliding the miniature tower toward him. It represented the extra funds he'd tried to covertly slip in with the rest, trusting in a feminine aversion to figures to temporarily disguise the increase, and in her greed to overcome her pride when the excess funds were discovered at some later time.

That she had reckoned the surplus amount right to the penny and so quickly was impressive, but he had little patience for her continued resistance. He leant over the wide desk and determinedly pushed the coins back in her direction with a toss of his head.

She capitulated elegantly, picking the coins up one by one. They clinked within her hands as she arranged them again into a perfectly aligned roll with her deft little fingers. But instead of adding them to the hoard in her pouch, his wife moved to pick up his other hand from where it rested upon the table, gently brushing the backs of his fingers with her nails.

The sensation was exquisite. Who knew digits were so sensitive and that the touch of a hand could be so…. erotic? She took a step closer to him and he could feel the soft brush of her breath on his neck. He shut his eyes but opened his hand to her ghost of a touch moving from the back to the palm of his hand.

Swiftly the warmth of her fingertips was replaced by the cold hard coins. He looked down into her eyes to find them equally hard and cold. She closed his hand around the money. Her refusal of his peace offering could not have been communicated any clearer with words.

"Do you need me to sign something, a receipt perhaps?" she enquired. Darcy shook his head, still bewildered by her very distracting proximity.

"Very well," she snapped, the harsh rap of her voice pulling him out of his trance. It mattered not, as there was no time for him to respond, no time for him to react. In barely the blink of an eye she had escaped into the hall on a confident, energetic stride, the swirl of her skirts slipping around the corner.

Darcy jingled the gold briefly before securing it within the lockable top drawer of his desk. Had she been playing him? And to what end? He was astonished that she had refused the money. Surely she had discerned that for that brief moment he had been completely in her power, and yet she had not pushed her advantage. Rather, his wife had further locked herself into a financially untenable position.

Sufficiently self-aware to recognise his preoccupation, even if not disciplined enough to overcome it, Darcy elected to walk rather than ride the short distance to Matlock House for the long overdue meeting with his uncle. A wise choice, as he continued to ponder the mystery that was Elizabeth right up to the moment he was announced to his uncle. It was perhaps less than wise to allow his distraction to accompany him to such an interview, which was bound to be fraught. But the thoughts of his wife were like barnacles on his mind, unable to be dislodged without considerable effort.

He expected the Earl to be greatly disappointed in his choice of a bride, angry even, especially once the full extent of her unsuitability was comprehended.

The way Darcy had gone about the marriage was also likely to incite censure, for rather than consult his uncle or even inform him of the impending nuptials he had stood before the altar like a thief in the night, with none of his family and connections around him. Certainly the Earl would have received his brief note before the announcement of his marriage appeared in the papers, but realistically the Earl of Matlock's foreknowledge would have only been of a few hours' duration; no doubt being behind the pace of events was a novel and frustrating experience for a man renowned for his great influence.

Darcy followed the butler closely into the familiar tastefully adorned study, almost cringing in anticipation of the guillotine about to drop.

His uncle, tall like all the Fitzwilliams even if not as tall as Darcy himself, stood slowly from his deep blue chesterfield placed in front of the fire. An empty glass sat on a small round table adjacent to his vacated seat. A generally sober man drinking so early in the day was not a promising sign. No further clues could be extracted from Lord Matlock's expression as he advanced across the room in a steady gait.

Perhaps presenting the marriage as _fait accompli_ had not been the best of ideas, but Darcy had been under sufficient strain simply trying to do what was gentlemanly and right. He did not need the added furore created by well-meaning relations assiduously trying to dissuade him from what must be done. Squaring his shoulders, Darcy resolved to take his punishment like a man.

Darcy reached out to initiate his Uncle's preferred familial greeting, a distant handshake, but to his astonishment, Lord Matlock took his hand and pulled him forward into a hug. Darcy stood bewildered. He could not remember the last time he had been embraced thus; certainly never by Lord Matlock before. Likewise, his father, while warm with praise, had never been an overly demonstrative man past Darcy's childhood, and had strictly adhered to an increasing formality in the years of his decline. Strangely, the last man to hold him in such a manner had been Sir Lewis De Bourgh on the day his excellent father, George Darcy, was laid to rest. Sir Lewis had been a great comfort in the weeks following his father's passing; it had been a double blow when his uncle by marriage trailed the Darcy patriarch to the grave not four months later.

The embrace while unexpected was very comforting, if a little awkward. It took a few moments for Darcy to think to return the gesture, lifting his arms, at which his Uncle gave a gruff cough before disengaging. He clumsily patted Darcy on the back and invited him to take a seat in front of the fire.

"Brandy or whisky?" asked Lord Matlock making his way over to the elaborate oriental drink trolley, obviously the one concession the Countess had made to the trademark Fitzwilliam gaudiness in the otherwise stately room.

"Do you not think the hour a bit young for heavy liquor?"

Lord Matlock grimaced but said good naturedly, "Maybe so, but when a man my age offers an apology it must be lubricated by strong spirits."

"An apology?"

Lord Matlock's halting but heartfelt speech touched Darcy. He almost confessed the truth of his marriage, the disclosure sitting tantalising on his tongue. Would it be better to be honest rather than adhere to the story conveyed in the cleverly temporised words in his missive? Darcy had spent an inordinate amount of time on his correspondence over the past week, especially in his letters to family. In each he had intentionally arranged his phrases in such a fashion as to give the impression of a love match, without explicitly dealing in untruths.

"After so many failed seasons, when I met Miss Bennet I saw no other option but marriage," stated Darcy in another cleverly worded disclosure, skirting the edges of falsehood.

"I am glad that things have turned out for the best, but I still cannot absolve myself so freely. I own that I was worried that you would never settle down, that you had developed some misguided notions on love, but in my indolence, or perhaps my innate discomfort with the subject, I put off the duty of counselling you. Despite this now happy outcome, I cannot help but think my reticence has caused you much avoidable unhappiness."

Darcy brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip, but mostly he found himself evaluating the meaning of his Uncle's words rather than the quality of the libation. "I never thought you put much confidence in the idea of love."

"That is not precisely true, I have always admired the steadfastness of Darcy matches, I daresay the tradition has added much prosperity to your family. Contrast this against the previous generation of Fitzwilliams: more bitter foes you could never find, and each of my parents determined to live in independent establishments more elaborate than the other. It took me many years to undo the damage such a hostile and ruinously expensive relationship did to the estate.

"Now, having enjoyed an arranged marriage myself that led to contentment, if not great passion, I saw no great evil in the old method itself, if the parents choose carefully with an eye to the compatibility of their children's spouses. And yet we have been saddled with another matrimonial disaster. I did not count on deception, foolish of me, I know. You must apprehend that Lady Cynthia shed all semblance of the sweet docility I had admired with the ease of a snake shedding its skin. I swear the ink was not even dry upon the register before she unleashed her viscous nature. I know you broke with your cousin James over his behaviour since the match, but having lived with that viper, I cannot grudge him his vices. He deserves our sympathy, not our scorn. Since the children arrived he has sobered somewhat and I think he could benefit from admittance back into your society."

Lord Matlock paused, looking at Darcy significantly, who could only reluctantly nod in reply. Certainly the quarrels of the late Earl and his wife had become the stuff of legend both within the family and without. As to his cousin James and his infamous behaviour following his indisputably miserable marriage, Darcy could forgive the gaming and such he had pulled back once the stakes came close to threatening the estate, but the young Lord had made a mockery of the whole family with his love affairs. And yet, could Darcy in good conscience ask the Earl and Countess for help while he continued to spurn their first born son? Moreover should the truth of his marriage get out, softening his attitude towards his wild cousin may gain him more allies willing to stand by him, should Darcy be declared a rake and a hypocrite.

"Will you permit Richard to choose his own marriage partner?"

"Yes, I dare not intrude into matters of the heart again, although with his current prospects his choices will be limited." Lord Matlock paused, rubbing his chin. "When the time comes I will advise him in the way I ought to have advised you. Love is an act of faith, seeing the best in someone and continuing to see the best of your partner even in the face of the less than desirable traits they have….. Not knowing the young lady you have now settled upon, I still find myself entitled to say that you had entirely too much choice on the marriage mart. I am sure you were introduced to many workable matches each year, but you found fault with each."

"Or with their mercenary tactics," muttered Darcy.

"Do not think of women so harshly. Their whole future life is determined by their marriage partner."

"And mine is not?"

Lord Matlock raised his eyebrows in surprise at the bitter question voiced by his nephew.

"We are getting off topic. You remember my sister as the exemplary woman who was your mother, but I can tell you that as a young woman she was not very promising. I thought your father, my friend at the time, was barking mad when he appealed to the Earl to court Anne. Beautiful she was, but a prouder and more unpleasant girl you could not imagine, and yet your father was desperate to have her; quite irrational. By that time, Father's health was failing and I despaired of taking over the management of Catherine and Anne, both budding termagants."

Darcy bristled at hearing his mother spoken of in such a fashion, but the Earl, seeing his agitation, shook his head to forestall his objections until he had finished saying his own piece.

"George Darcy was utterly devoted to your mother. Little by little, bit by bit, she became…. I know not how to describe it. Under his love she became the woman he loved. I do not know if the kindness and sweetness had always been there, buried under her caprice, and we as a family had missed it, or if she became so to please your father." He paused, frowning. "The years of trying to have a child further softened your mother's harsher edges. Failing in this area humbled her in a way I could not have foreseen. It was as if by receiving the generous compassion of others, her improper pride melted by increments. By the time you arrived she was a lady without peer. Following your father's example I tried to get to know my own wife better. Though she had not been my choice, I found much to admire in her, and the more I admired her, the more admirable she became. I think it is the love we lavish on our partners that makes us happy, more so than the raw bones of what each brings to the match."

Uncomfortable with the conversation for obvious reasons and others not so tangible, Darcy responded "So if James loves Lady Cynthia enough she may become kind?"

The Earl snorted. "That creature is not a woman but a goblin who has pulled the hide of a girl over herself to conceal her rotten core. There is no redemption for one such as she." He waved off the thought of Lady Cynthia, wrinkling his nose as if his cup held pig swill rather than the finest whisky money could buy.

"… So when are we to meet the new addition to the family?"

Darcy sighed, sitting forward to rest his elbows upon his knees. "She is not of our sphere. I expect she will find our set quite intimidating. Two weeks alone together, mayhap three, cannot help but build her confidence. Then I think a family dinner to introduce her to you all before she begins her public season would be most appropriate."

The Earl smiled, thinking those two weeks alone with his bride had naught to do with sparing her the rigours of socialising. "Well you can count upon our support, but you cannot count on the Countess staying away for a full three weeks. I will stay her as long as possible, but I think you should expect a call from your Aunt next week, if not sooner."

"Very well."

"And Darcy, I'd appreciate it if an invitation was extended to James for the forthcoming family dinner."

"Very well," replied Darcy again, resigned but relieved, before taking his leave. On the walk home he wondered if the interview had been a success. He had not been scolded. Certainly the Earl would support his wife, searching within her for qualities to love and draw out through familial support.

He pondered the disclosures about his own mother. Now engaged in the business of getting an heir, he hoped that they would not suffer similar difficulties to those his own parents had endured. For although the Darcys married years ahead of the Earl of Matlock, the Earl had his heir, spare and another daughter to marry off for political gain by the time the Darcys produced their first issue. He suspected that his mother had continued to hope for a child for many years after he was born. Now that he was more worldly, he could recognise that the spate of illnesses, hushed and furtive, were likely the result of lost children, something he had been unable to understand as a child.

That she had been able to bring Georgiana safely into the world at such an advanced age seemed a miracle, but shortly after his sister's birth Lady Anne's health had begun to fail. She valiantly lingered for a twelve month before succumbing to her ailments. With her she took the light from his father's soul. Darcy mourned for Georgiana nearly as much as he did for his departed mother, for the little girl would never know the easy familial happiness that had been his during his youth. Without Lady Anne his father became a shell of a man.

Long before his mother's decline he had witnessed the lessening of intimacy between Anne Darcy and Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Was it because of the great distance between their estates or the widening chasm in their personalities?

Inexplicably the vision of Elizabeth at the bottom of the tub invaded his mind. What could she have been doing? He clearly saw her eyes through the wall of water but they had been so distant… The churning and bubbles had hidden her face as he pulled her out, then she had been spitting mad. An heir was essential, but to continue in their intimacy as they had the night before was out of the question: he would not leave himself so vulnerable. He liked children, they were so refreshingly honest, and his wife had clearly declared she would very much wish to have one, but the question was: how to go about the mechanics of the thing without losing control? His mind traitorously whispered that losing control would have its own rewards, but he tamped down hard on that line of thought.

He had much to ponder, most of it concerning his marriage partner, and deciding he wanted his thoughts in order before next encountering the girl, he took a detour, a stroll through the park to wander through his thoughts unimpeded by her presence.

…..

Meanwhile Elizabeth was having her own difficult conversation, although it was grounded in mundane practicality rather than the elevated theory of love.

"I fully comprehend your objections, but I do not see that you have much of a choice."

The diminutive figure sitting across from Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and fiddled with the end of the measuring tape she wore around her neck. The woman was more than six years older than Elizabeth, not that any unacquainted individual could have possibly picked her as being the more advanced in age. She was even tinier in stature than Mrs. Darcy, which was quite a feat in itself, but her skin showed not a single blemish, luminous as a magnolia petal in its youthful sheen. Her eyes, coal dark and slanted, betrayed her foreign pedigree, as did her lovely black hair. It was raven black, straight as an arrow and with streaks of shimmering blue when the light hit it just so.

Yes, Elizabeth's modiste of choice was a young woman of Japanese descent.

It was an unfortunate heritage: the prevalent xenophobia of the English could bend so far as to elevate French fashions and madams of the thread, but though they dabbled in foreign trends, the Ladies of high society would not bring their custom to an unknown seamstress from the very eastern of kingdoms.

Her genius would remain undiscovered. She could spend her life in this dim little shop front on the edge of Cheapside if she did not accept Elizabeth's help and offer her own help in return, taking a gamble on her ascending star.

"Madame Miura, this plan will work to your advantage as well as mine. Your designs will be paraded in front of the very circles you wish to penetrate."

She wrinkled her tiny nose. "I will not affect French names or manners." Her soft voice, distinctively English in accent, was quite a deviation from her exceedingly exotic appearance. It was not a perfect diction though: in every tenth or twelfth word there was a flavour of otherness to her speech. "We came here to escape the spread of French ideals. I will not ape them, no matter the pecuniary gain."

"Very well Miss Miura. Now about my proposal….."

Miss Miura, rubbed her temples and muttered something in Dutch before switching back to English. "Your Uncle has always dealt with us fairly, but the man who took over his business has offered us but a third of the established price for our printed fabrics. He thinks he can cheat a woman, and may the Lord help me, he might be right. How am I to support the girls and Ojiisan on such a pittance? But if I do not take it we will lose the shop, and then it is but a few steps closer to starvation."

Elizabeth did not miss the plaintive tone in the woman's voice, Miss Miura's trials put her own suffering into humbling perspective. The waste of the previous evening's dinner pinched her mind anew; that they should have sent so many dishes back to kitchen barely touched while Miss Miura stressed over her ability to fill the bellies of her orphaned siblings and aging grandfather seemed sinful. Granted, Elizabeth anticipated a great deal of agitation and conflict in her marriage, but she could rest assured that she would never starve. Nor could she imagine her husband ever letting a child of his want for anything, even though her basis for this conviction was murky. Mr. Darcy had even offered her some extra funds for her wardrobe, perhaps as a peace offering, perhaps to prevent being embarrassed should she appear in less than appropriate dress, but she had been too proud take the olive branch.

Would it always be this way between them? Attack and retreat, snaps and apologies? It was perhaps pessimistic to envision a lifetime of swiping at each other based on only a single day's tally of interactions. A tide of pink suffused her features when she thought about the method in which she had refused his largesse initiating that touch to his very masculine hands, the hands that had been deeply intimate with her body just hours before. Perhaps the touch would have been innocent in concept, although to her it had felt anything but.

Now her stubbornness was affecting this honest seamstress. If she had just swallowed her pride and accepted his offer, her own offer would have more appeal. Certainly it would still be risky, but it would be a risk of not turning an optimum profit rather than flirting with poverty. She looked around the tiny dark shop front. Light it lacked, cleanliness it had in abundance. The dark slate floors gleamed in the dim light, every tile, every line of grout as pristine as the day they were laid. The windows were small but so perfectly clear you could see every bubbled imperfection in their manufacture.

"If we can pull it off, you need not worry about your future," Elizabeth said, feeling all the inadequacy of the remark.

Elizabeth had been provided an abridged history of Miura Akiko and the rest of the Miura family by her Aunt Gardiner when she had taken her niece to the small shop to get her fitted for a selection of clothing for the upcoming winter over a year ago.

Elizabeth had been firmly against receiving new clothing, knowing that the cost of educating and providing future prospects for his three young boys weighed heavily upon her uncle's mind. But as Aunt Gardiner had pointed out, the clothing commissioned by Mrs. Bennet on the basis of an understanding between Elizabeth and Mr. Collins was universally vulgar in design and now, to add insult to injury, it had become quite shabby after nearly three years of vigorous wear at school.

Amused by her niece's stubborn opposition to a small indulgence in finery, Madeline Gardiner had advanced the argument that for Elizabeth to appear in anything less than well-crafted and tasteful attire would reflect poorly upon the Gardiner family, and that, unlike a gentleman's family, there would be more at stake than gossip. Should Edward Gardiner be perceived to be in straitened circumstances due to Elizabeth's shabby attire, it may affect his contracts or ability to attract investors.

Upon observing a few hairline cracks in Elizabeth's resolve, Madeline Gardiner, consummate negotiator that she was, had pushed her advantage by sharing the tale of woe of the Miura family.

Exhausted by the peril and secrecy of living as clandestine Christians in Nagasaki, Japan, the Miura family consisting of the expecting Kohana, her devoted husband and her doting father had convinced a reluctant Dutch captain to smuggle them out of the country. The Captain likely would have continued to turn a deaf ear to their entreaties -despite the considerable amount of gold offered- but the shrewd trader who accompanied the vessel had evaluated the highly marketable fabrics produced by the family. He had considered the endeavour worth the risk, likening taking the family to stealing the goose that laid the gold eggs, and used his considerable influence to sway the captain to his thinking.

After a long but thankfully uneventful journey to Europe, the family settled in Amsterdam. Dealing principally with the trader who had been the means of their salvation, fabric print and decoration allowed the family to attain a moderate prosperity.

The first of the new generation of Miuras was born at sea, seemingly healthy, but sadly the baby did not live to see his first birthday. As if to make up for this disappointing beginning, the Gods saw fit to bless Kohana with a beautiful baby girl in the first year of the family's residence in Amsterdam. She did not increase again for half a decade but once she blossomed into motherhood, she had produced a child every year from that point onward, moreover each infant entered the world healthy, giving Kohana little trouble in the childbed. By the time the rumblings of revolution were heard, the family had grown to eight in number.

But after ten years of peace it seemed that the family's run of luck had come to an end. The trader who had provided them with such steady orders and income went missing under mysterious circumstances. Strange men were seen to be hanging around their work studio and the neighbouring print shop, and a miasma of fear all too familiar had begun to infiltrate their existence again.

In an unrelated dose of tragedy, Kohana's last pregnancy, that had thereto progressed without any notable fanfare, had ended abruptly and early, taking both mother and child in a matter of hours.

Feeling that all-pervading sense of unease, compounded by sorrow, the widowed Rento convinced the equally uneasy head of the family that it was time to move on from Amsterdam. Utilising the last of their hoarded savings they emigrated to the comparatively more stable regime of England and started the arduous process of establishing a business in the fiercely nationalistic marketplace.

As they attained a sufficient age, the children had all been obliged to work in varying degrees on the production. This is where the naturally creative Akiko had proven her worth. At the age of eight she was very slight and not suited to the heavier work of dyeing, but what she would always lack in brute strength she more than made up for in her artistic sensibilities.

Growing up in the rich cultural melting pot that was Amsterdam prior to the turn of the century, she had been exposed to a great number of ideas and arts, all of which subtly influenced her inquisitive young mind. Although her parents and grandfather had struggled greatly with the integration regime, she found herself effortlessly accepted by the other immigrants in their artisan district. She wandered in and out of other workshops and in and out of the various homes that surrounded her. In many ways it was harder for her to relate to her own family, they often found her challenging of their ideas and traditions disrespectful and improper.

She developed a restrained ascetic and gentle sense of pattern; she strongly believed in letting the patterns breathe. Once in England, she experimented with the subtle use of very monochromatic schemes, she found they supported rich detail without the pattern becoming tiresome or gaudy. Ever aware of the labour and materials involved in printing, and to a greater degree embroidery, she trialled asymmetrical prints and the use of targeted patterns to accentuate certain parts of a dress, coat or underlying figure.

On a routine visit to their workshop, Edward Gardiner had happened to see some of Akiko's distinct yet formative designs not yet stowed away before the start of business. He had enquired after the new craftsman and was surprised to see the young girl come boldly forward to explain her perspective. Mr. Gardiner subsequently placed the largest order they had received to date, commissioning a series of patterns in this new restrained print style. Unable to reject the promised income due to the father's declining health, the family had thrown their combined efforts into the new designs.

The business arrangement progressed well to the benefit of both parties for a number of years, especially when shipments of imported fabrics fell through. Though the continuing war continued to affect textile prices, the demand and prices fluctuated wildly, making it difficult to plan and difficult to save. After her father's passing, Miss Miura often sought Mr. Gardiner's opinion on matters of business. He advocated diversification: selling printed fabrics was certainly more straightforward but depended greatly on regular orders as the margins were not excessively high. The young businesswoman branched into clothing, her first commission a set of silk waistcoats for Mr. Gardiner.

Miss Miura was commissioned to design and create the bulk of Mrs. Gardiner's wardrobe in the year nine and was introduced to Elizabeth Bennet not long after, when Miss Miura was asked to dress the cost adverse young woman for her stay in town.

Although every apparel customer came away uniformly satisfied with the craftsmanship and design of her unique creations, business was nevertheless desultory. The Gardiners were eager to promote the Muira workshop to all of their acquaintances, but their friends mostly circulated within a pool of well-to-do families in trade. While these families did not need to economise per se, they knew enough of the uncertainties of business to appreciate frugality. In addition, the pattern of their daily lives simply did not require such an extensive wardrobe as society ladies and gentlemen: a soiree here a dinner party there, but the bulk of their evenings were spent at home or with family. What they chose to wear rarely needed to dazzle, moreover in some cases appearing better dressed than one's patrons could cause problems. They did not want or need high fashion, they were mostly happy to ape their social betters in a subdued but well-crafted manner.

What the Miura family venture really needed was to intrude upon the notice of the Ton: to become the latest sensation to ladies who wanted to turn heads, to get their bold designs into the heads of London's menagerie of fops and dandies, all so eager to outdo each other and willing to spend hard coin in pursuit of fashion superiority.

This was exactly what Elizabeth had to offer today: a chance to parade their banner at the very best events of the upper ten thousand.

Yet Elizabeth's funds were limited: £55 all told, the amount provided by her husband and another £25 slipped into her hands by her apologetic uncle after supper on the eve of her wedding. Elizabeth had tried to refuse the money, but her red-faced Uncle had shaken the notes at her saying, "Just take it, let an old man assuage his conscience." She had looked at him, puzzlement scribbled across her countenance. He had then given a deep sigh, that for perhaps the only time in Elizabeth's memory smelt of spirits. "Your marriage settlement… it is a disgrace – I tried to argue, but I was hampered by your father who saw fit to capitulate on every point of importance. The only protection I was able to achieve was because the men of your life did not perceive its significance."

"Uncle, you are talking in circles. I am merely travelling to London while you are bound for India with most of your assets preceding you; surely you need all the funds at your disposal."

"Take this toward your wardrobe, heaven knows your pin money will not even begin to cover it; I will worry otherwise. Please do me this service my girl, and do not argue further." She had nodded most reluctantly, at that time more concerned about her Uncle's distress than her appearance in London.

"I accept!" declared Miss Miura, breaking into Elizabeth's thoughts. Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement, the satisfaction of doing the impossible.

"But only on the following terms."

Elizabeth nodded leaning forward in her seat, listening intently.

"I have the final call on your entire wardrobe, I will determine the dress design without argument from you and I also reserve the right to dictate which gowns are worn to key events."

Miss Miura looked to be suffering some anxiety over the novel demand, but having lived most her life in hand me downs, Elizabeth was not prone to vanity or used to having much control over her wardrobe. Oh, she had ideas, but was neither confident nor knowledgeable enough to consider pressing her preferences at the cost of losing her modiste's goodwill. Except for on one point: "No turbans."

Miss Miura snorted, "You need not fear. Neither turbans nor feathers will ever form a part of any design of mine." She wrinkled her little nose in delicate disgust, then turned serious again, almost regretful. "It will all be for naught if you appear in shabby accessories, so I will take £15 for materials and complete the dresses on terms. The rest of your ready money must be reserved for purchasing accompaniments. I will attend you at the milliner's and at the boot maker's, and I will take you to a local warehouse to select matching gloves and flattering under things."

Elizabeth hardly knew how to respond to this little speech. She was amused at the militant way Miss Miura had planned the campaign of shopping, reserving all the decisions, even those of under clothes, unto herself. But the small amount she reserved for herself was insupportable: she had six mouths to feed. Elizabeth cursed herself again for spurning the additional funds offered by her husband.

"You must take more, I am sure we can economise on some things like basic bonnets. I shall have a rummage around the attic, see if I can find some furs there."

Miss Miura shook her head emphatically. "No, in for a penny in for a pound. I will take this risk only if we do it correctly. Head to toe, you must be perfection. We have some savings, they would run out anyway if I cannot make this venture work. The girls will embroider until their fingers bleed, but our success will keep them under my care and out of service."

Elizabeth held out her hand sombrely. Miss Miura shook it once, eyes shining with determination. "Then let us begin."

 _ **Wish I could have included more about the Christians in Japan and the amazing cultural diversity that flourished in Amsterdam in this period, but alas these side notes could have turned into a book in themselves.**_

 _ **Please review.**_


	7. Cheerful Souls Need Not Apply

**A/N: Sorry for the long absence. A series of disasters commensurate with Family life struck: late nights at work for my husband, illness, injury and kids who just refuse to sleep night after night.**

 **But thank you all for the wonderful reviews! There is a big pile of dirty washing sitting in my laundry giving me the gimlet eye, but I repent nothing! I hope this meaty chapter adequately expresses my gratitude for all the support.**

 **And of course this chapter would have taken much longer and be vastly less readable if it were not for the continued efforts of Lenniee, she is awesome.**

…

In the two weeks that followed, Elizabeth was bound to a rigorous regime of shopping and improvement, the latter courtesy of her overbearing husband.

Mr. Darcy was quite a bore when it came to instruction; to be sure, such a mediocre teacher would never be permitted at Mrs. Pratts' school. The topics ranged from proper calling etiquette and conversation topics, to how to address various members of the Aristocracy and the finer points of precedence. It was all subject matter that any gentle woman should be familiar with, country born or not, although in Elizabeth and Jane's case this instruction came through their Aunt Gardiner rather than Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth having the further benefit of being drilled on these points at school.

Yet any time she tried to interject, to say that she was more than aware of the way to act -in theory at least if not in practice- she was shushed unceremoniously. She would have been infuriated, if she were not so painfully bored!

He had given up trying to lecture her in the breakfast room. She had spent half an hour watching him serenely while continuously stirring a stone cold cup of tea. Around and around the spoon went, occasionally dinging against the cup. "Just drink the thing!" he had boomed, quite suddenly but satisfyingly. She had only smirked back, "Oh but it is has gotten quite cold, I was just so absorbed in your instruction… please do go on."

If she had to be lectured, she preferred his study over the drawing room; at least it had a nice view from the window. Daydreaming was a given, and she had made stifling yawns into an art form. Teasing him was the only amusement, and she took a grim pleasure in setting him ill at ease –though she owned it was no great challenge: he was such a prickly thing!

Sometimes Elizabeth adopted the most affected poses for listening: cradling her chin in her hand and staring at him with an over exaggerated rapt expression that always made that muscle in his jaw jump like a cricket.

Aside from the one outburst over the tea, the signs of his irritation were subtle, perhaps easily missed if she had not spent so much time with little else to do but observe.

Her husband clung to the appearance of good manners, if not their spirit. He did not belittle her with direct insults, and yet his unconscious sense of superiority could not be anything but offensive: an incendiary combination of improper pride in his own status and a blind prejudice towards her background that he defended against all of her quiet attempts to pierce it.

As he droned on… and on… and on, Elizabeth's mind often wandered, mostly venturing into more pleasing subjects and some less so.

She would remember his naked flesh pressed up her own at the oddest times, causing a powerful blush to suffuse her features. She could not credit it was the same man, the man who had been so intent upon her and her body. Now even when lecturing her he tended to gaze at a point just beyond her shoulder, never at her, that jaw often twitching when her blush made not infrequent appearances.

It was remarkable how he could ramble on about social mores (a few of which he had woefully incorrect), and yet in their everyday interactions he never said two words when one would suffice, and preferred none when he could get away with it.

His perfunctory manner continued in the bedroom. While Elizabeth found it easy to turn a deaf ear to his twaddle on etiquette, she could not ignore him when he visited her chambers. Nor could she muster the courage to tease him.

The transcendent act she had enjoyed on their first night and that had felt so infinitely natural was now a hurried and impersonal exchange. He hovered over her on his elbows, keeping his contact strictly corralled to what was necessary for the procreation of children. He even kept his trousers and shirt on, accessing her expeditiously through his unbuttoned fall. Throughout, he wore a rather pained expression: clenched jaw, furrowed brow, which he attempted to hide by turning his face away whenever he happened to catch her looking at him.

When complete, he would rest upon her for a few moments, crushing her with his weight while he caught his breath. Depending on the night, once recovered he might either snap to attention like a soldier derelict in his duties and flee the room rapidly thereafter, or he would disengage slowly, following with a sad, barely audible sigh, before departing with a dejected shuffle. On his last visit he had even given her an absent-minded pat on the shoulder.

It was truly absurd, but not the kind of folly she could laugh at.

She dreaded his visits, but they were a necessary evil, weren't they? She had told him on the first night of their union that she hoped for a child, and despite his disgust, possibly in his own way he was trying to give her… something she desired? Or maybe he was simply diligently and joylessly questing for an heir…

Although she never felt the delicious pleasure she had experienced on their first night, he was never rough, that was something to be grateful for, wasn't it? That he didn't use her ill? And the one time she had said she felt poorly he had left her swiftly without recriminations or complaint –or any words beyond 'Goodnight'. But the interludes, that ought to have been intimate, made Elizabeth feel increasingly lonely. A resentment, rooted in confusion and shame, began to build with his repeated rejections. That he knew better was in no doubt; if she had erred someway on that first night, he ought to have told her so.

He seemed intent on correcting her perceived faults for moving in society, but totally uninterested in improving their felicity as a couple.

While her husband was clearly apprehensive, Elizabeth eagerly looked forward to joining society again. She had a number of friends in town, met during her time living with her Aunt and Uncle.

Uncle Gardiner was a solid businessman, but he had also been given an education befitting a gentleman, thus he was well versed in the appreciation of literature, art and music. A naturally inclusive man, he had fostered that enjoyment in his home, making welcome a wide range of individuals of an intellectual inclination. Some conversation, some light banter, and - heaven forbid - some laughter had the potential to warm up the stifling mausoleum that was Darcy house. The artistic set could not help but provide it.

Elizabeth also wondered about her new sister. The few times Darcy spoke of her, his voice glowed with affection. His eyes too betrayed his warm regard, even if his face was not aware of the depth of his esteem, for whatever topic they discussed he seemed to have that tight mask of restrained irritation firmly affixed.

At dinner she was aware of him watching her eat her repast with rapt attention, his dark eyes crawling over her, methodically searching for fault, no doubt. How nice it would be to add a third to their silent dinners, for even if the girl turned out to be a wholesale shrew at least she may divert a measure of his intense scrutiny.

The shopping trips turned out to be a true delight, and perhaps the only thing that kept Elizabeth sane in those early weeks. Amusingly, White outright refused to accompany her Mistress to Cheapside. Rather than argue with her maid about her duties, Elizabeth decided to count her blessings, few though there were, and took the parlour maids on a rotation. The girls seemed to like the change of scenery and, more importantly, getting out from under the thumb of Mrs. Pearce for a few short hours.

The gloomy atmosphere at Darcy house was down to more than just the décor. In her short experience, Elizabeth found Mrs. Pearce to be a harsh woman with all except the Master. It was not a matter of sternness -housekeepers were universally stern- but more of an underlying meanness of spirit. She punished minor infractions in the staff with a severity that was quite unwarranted. Elizabeth bore witness to her intemperate abuse of one of the maids regarding a mere dust in the disused red drawing room. When Mrs. Darcy had entered, the woman looked up at her Mistress, but rather than excuse herself or the silently weeping girl, she had continued to berate her, only departing once the maid had already run off in a flood of mortification.

But needs must be adapted to resources. Elizabeth would bide her time, perhaps reserving household changes until she enjoyed a greater measure of ease with her husband and a greater measure of time, once the first rush of shopping was over. Loath though she was to deprive anyone of their livelihood, White would surely have to go, perhaps Mrs. Pearce as well. The next thing would be to address those ridiculous dinners.

When Elizabeth had first applied to have a basket of food stuffs made up for her to take to the Miura family, Mrs. Pearce had objected most vehemently, even threatening to consult Mr. Darcy on the point. Had he not given explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed that afternoon, the housekeeper would have undoubtedly marched into his office to decry the Mistress' demand. As it was, she had desisted in the face of Elizabeth's continued insistence.

The issue was not forgotten however, and in the interests of causing as little fuss as possible (for the time being anyway), Elizabeth had ventured down to the kitchens to retrieve the next basket personally, hoping for a kinder reception from the cook. In this she was again disappointed. The buxom mistress of the kitchens had a ruddy face with piggy little eyes that viewed Mrs. Darcy with evident distaste, and pursed lips that opened to claim in strident tones that she could not make a basket, "Cause I haven't got no spare baskets." Elizabeth had blanched at the coarse tone, but Jonny piped up, helpfully saying that there was surely one in the butler's office and that he would get it in a moment. Once filled, the wiry footman, that put Elizabeth in mind of a dark whippet, had naturally insisted on carrying the packed offering upstairs for the young Mistress.

Upon reaching the foyer Elizabeth had asked, "Are they always this unpleasant or is it just me?"

"They never warm to ye, but I guess you just get used to their sour pusses after a while."

At this rather disrespectful disclosure, his stride had faltered momentarily, but then he gave a cheeky grin at his own intemperate words. "I'm sorry Ma'am. Even if I think it, I shouldn't say so." Elizabeth had given a laugh, her timbre warm and friendly. She had not contradicted his self-chastisement but reached out to pat his arm. This only seemed to discompose him further and he stumbled off toward his duties.

She wondered at the hiring of the staff: how had the advertisements read to attract characters like Mrs. Pearce, Mrs. White and of course the cook?

 _Pre-requisites: strong belief in own infallibility, meanness of character and sour countenance must be displayed at all times. Cheerful souls need not apply._

To be fair, the staff at Darcy house seemed to fall into two disparate categories. Putting aside the terrible triad, there was no evil in the other servants. The footmen were universally very good natured, though not so familiar as Jonny, who was still comparatively new to service. The parlour maids were meek girls, easily dominated but essentially kind, as far as Elizabeth could tell. And the stable staff were quietly efficient and discreet.

The only one who seemed to straddle these two groups was the stately Soames: he seemed confident enough in his position to hold his ground without victimising the other staff. Yet he had still once or twice turned a very disapproving eye on the new Mistress, but the difference between him and Mrs. Pearce was that when he frowned at Mrs. Darcy she usually deserved it. Elizabeth was thankful Soames did not comment on the water she had tracked into the house one afternoon or ask how she had come by it, and she had decided to like him quite well when she realised he had not reported her transgression to Mr Darcy.

And what full days she enjoyed or endured, depending on the battle her seamstress had designated for the day.

Mostly they trotted back and forth on Gracechurch Street, patronising the local establishments just as capable as any Bond Street artisans; if all they lacked with the exclusive address, they also did not charge the exclusive prices. Miss Miura also haggled like an old fishwife; it was an ambush, the shock of the small doll-like woman requesting, nay, demanding a better price in strident tones. And yet she was so genuine and fulsome in her praise of the work well done that few grudged her at the end of the visit.

They passed by the Gardiners residence frequently, and Elizabeth always felt a pang upon seeing it. The pain was still too fresh, the uncertainty of her new situation and the fear she may never see them again made the hitherto cheery home take on a spectre-like quality in her mind. The impression persisted until one day she saw four perfectly turned out little girls in peach half dresses and white petite bonnets encasing their gold curls. What an odd thought: a house previously dominated by boisterous little captains and knights was now home to a gaggle of tiny princesses. The idea cheered Elizabeth immensely.

After the shopping was complete, but before she returned to the Darcy residence, Elizabeth indulged in her little guilty pleasure. Walking.

There was no call to intrude upon the notice of the fashionable set just yet, but Elizabeth visited a select few of the respectable but less frequented shrines to nature in the city. Enjoying her anonymity while it lasted, she went on moderate rambles, always accompanied by the maid on shopping duty, and on the rare occasion the weather was relatively pleasant Miss Miura might be tempted to join also. "Only an English woman!" she'd say when Elizabeth insisted that the outdoors would be no less enjoyable despite the chill weather and strong wind. Fingers cramped from long hours with a needle she could endure, but fingers cramped from the cold when there was no imperative to be abroad in the depth of winter, Akiko firmly declared it to be insanity.

The maids never complained, but then again they never would. Regardless, Elizabeth never let her walks stretch beyond an hour, leaving the girls with sufficient energy reserves to complete their duties and enough time for her to return and prepare for dinner.

Yes, she engaged in some mild subterfuge to enjoy her winter jaunts, but if she ever felt a twinge of guilt it was short lived, and the fact that the staff supported her in this small indulgence, neither reporting her whereabouts and concealing the evidence the time she had absentmindedly wet her gown in some snow drifts, brought a warm glow to her heart: it was good to have allies.

After the walk she would submit to White's gloomy preparations before meeting her husband, always in the hall and always dour. During dinner Mr. Darcy would talk little, but stare a lot. His silence, juxtaposed with his pompous verbosity in the morning, ought to have been soothing, but it wasn't.

There was often a short interlude between eating and retiring, again silent. She could have played the fine piano forte, but did not like the idea of exposing herself to him, even through music. Both retreated into the written word, though when she lifted her gaze, Elizabeth more than once found her husband paying more attention to her than his tome.

He didn't visit her chambers every night, and he usually gave her advance warning, either at dinner or after. He phrased it as a question, but he must have been relatively confident she would not refuse. Though the new method tickled her recollections of that first night, it brought her no joy.

Elizabeth wasted many late night hours wondering what had triggered the change, but she could not come to any satisfactory conclusions. Her shyness still held sway until she forcefully overcame it, writing to both Aunt Gardiner and Cassandra of that first intimate encounter in the blandest terms she could, hoping they could shed light on the fault in her bedroom behaviour.

Approximately a sennight into their co-habitation, Mr. Darcy at one breakfast held up the letters she had directed the butler to post the day prior. Outraged, Elizabeth exclaimed, "By what right do you confiscate and read my private correspondence!"

With a telling look at the footman, who promptly departed, Mr. Darcy countered coolly, "The right of a husband." He flicked the letters, showing the seals unbroken on the reverse side "I would not violate your privacy by reading your private conversations, but I ask that you do not jeopardise the privacy of this family by committing to paper that which could harm the reputation of the Darcy name."

Elizabeth pushed her plate away from herself and crossed her arms, "I must have some confidantes, Aunt Gardiner's and Cassandra's discretion can be relied upon, I assure you. Would you deny me access to my friends and family?"

Her husband seemed to consider this, tapping the letters on the white tablecloth, "I would prefer you to keep to the fiction of a love match, even with your closer connections. If you must confide in someone, I would prefer it to be in person and with the utmost care." He then leaned in closely, distracting her with his pleasantly masculine scent. "You must know that the servants hereabouts gossip terribly; some of my contemporaries even stoop to bribing their retainers for juicy scandal fodder. It is much easier to keep a secret between two than two dozen. Letters likewise can be intercepted, and a letter to India will pass through a great number of hands, it is a great risk to rely upon all of them being honest."

Elizabeth watched him rub his thumb along his chin in an unprecedented display of uncertainty. "I will allow these salutations and any future correspondence unhindered if you can give me your word that no references to the circumstances of our engagement or the strained state of our marriage are included therein."

Elizabeth sighed, it was the first evidence that he would be willing to compromise on any issue and as such ought to be rewarded with honesty on her part. She took the letters from his hand and walked over to drop them in the fire. Picking up a nearby poker she pushed the letters into the hottest part of the established blaze.

"I give my word, I will not write anything sensational of our circumstances. I will not lie, but I will be circumspect in my disclosures," said she upon resuming her seat at the table.

Her husband gave a nod and she fully expected the matter to end there, so Elizabeth was surprised when he went on talking. "I can fully appreciate why you may not want to dissemble in your correspondence. I generally abhor disguise myself, but I would ask that you strive to present a picture of marital felicity when my sister joins us Monday next."

"Can she not be trusted with the truth?" asked Elizabeth surprised. He had talked but little of his sister, but any mention of her to date had held a measure of respect as well as affection.

"I am sure she could, but I would not have her disappointed by the way our marriage came about, or correspondingly prejudiced against you. Our parents were a great love match, very uncharacteristic of their time, and I would like her to remain confident in her chances of a match of affection as she approaches her imminent launch into society."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at this little speech. She could understand disappointment but not prejudice, should Miss Darcy learn the events that had led to their marriage, for it was really an unfortunate accident. That the last pair of Darcys had been a 'great' love match was a surprise; surely, with his dour attitude she would have imagined her husband viewed marriage in the old way: essentially a businesslike transaction, with credentials of prospective brides examined in much the same manner he would fill a position within his staff.

"What of your other relations?"

"I have kept Lord Matlock in the dark. We will need the support of the Countess and their children in the coming weeks. As for Lady Catherine, well, let us just say she does not need any additional incentive to hate you."

After offering such a tantalising description of his family, Elizabeth would have liked to ask him to elaborate, but he consulted his pocket watch, informing her that he must away if he was to make an important appointment in time.

…..

Darcy may have cursed himself for not having been more forthcoming regarding his family before the following week rolled to a close.

The Countess, with an uncanny talent for mischief, contrived to call on one of the few occasions Darcy had allowed himself to leave the residence to attend to urgent business.

Naturally he considered it more prudent that he be present for all calls, especially this first and rather important introduction to the most influential of his female relatives. As juvenile as it would appear, he was not above kicking his wife's slipper-clad little toes if she strayed from the requisite social niceties or displayed that temper of hers.

He would not have put it past his Aunt to have deliberately arrived when she knew him to be out -either through some female witchcraft or with the collusion of one or more of his staff. Just because her husband had accepted the rather extraordinary match without pressing for details, it did not follow that the Countess would be so complacent. Whether it was by design or not, she had now enjoyed unfettered access to his country bride and had come with Georgiana in tow, and judging by the denuded tea trays, the call had already run quite long.

The introduction between his wife and Georgiana was an even more delicate matter that he had hoped to oversee personally.

Darcy had always felt a great deal of sadness over Georgiana's sombre upbringing. The amount of time he had dedicated to his sister when home during breaks from his education were well in excess of the attention that most fathers paid to their offspring, but the young man had been acutely aware of his father's persisting melancholy. His father was more than capable of running the estate: he seemed to revel in estate work, to the exclusion of all else, but once separated from the ledgers or discussions of drainage or crops, the colour and verve would leech out of his eyes. George Darcy had no time for Georgiana the baby, and as she grew and her similarity in looks to the late Mrs. Darcy strengthened, he seemed to actively avoid the girl, and then passed well before he could ever know the woman.

Darcy could not deny that providing a friend and role model for his sister had been a factor in his search for a wife, but only the right kind of wife.

Now the sensitive and often lonely girl was sitting there, positively beaming, in her new sister's company. Elizabeth said something. In his position just outside the room, he was too far to hear exactly what, but it was accompanied by a sly smile and a wink. Georgiana's eyes opened in astonishment, her mouth falling open to reinforce her shock. Lady Matlock reached over to pat the girl's arm at the same time as the new Mrs. Darcy did, and all three of them dissolved into laughter. Darcy stood, puzzled by the display of female solidarity but also reluctant to break the spell.

Georgiana caught sight of him first.

"Brother!" she cried, running across the room and hurling herself into his arms. It was unladylike, but he could not admonish her. He swung her around in a tight circle before putting her down again.

"I've missed you," they said simultaneously. Georgiana laughed gaily at the impasse, while Darcy, with a smile, put a hand on the small of her back to steer her back to the settee and her companions. But the Countess and Mrs. Darcy now stood, the latter with a look of wonder upon her face.

"We have taken up too much of your honeymoon already," declared Lady Matlock, smoothing her skirt.

"No, surely not!" explaimed Georgiana. "Fitzwilliam was not even here."

Lady Matlock just gave a 'tut tut' and began moving them towards the door without actually shoving, but through the sheer force of her personality.

"In a few days we will descend _en masse_ for dinner, then you will return to take up residence in a little over a week. Allow the newlyweds their last measure of honeymoon bliss, my girl."

Darcy reluctantly relinquished Georgiana to Mrs. Darcy and offered Lady Matlock his arm. He felt rather mystified at the warm camaraderie established so quickly in his absence, and was rather sorry to see Georgie go. He walked Lady Matlock to the door while Elizabeth conferred quietly with his sister, and astonishingly brought another dazzling smile onto the shy girl's countenance.

"You have done well, Fitzwilliam, I am very proud of you," said Lady Matlock cutting across his thoughts.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

And with that rather surprising statement, Lady Matlock departed with his sister. The weight that had been sitting on his chest ever since the Netherfield ball lightened a fraction, allowing him to take a deeper breath, unconstrained by stress.

In the absence of the other ladies he had the leisure to appraise his wife. She wore a rose coloured muslin gown; the colour was so deep to be almost red at the bottom of the skirt, gradually fading to a very soft blush at her neckline. A beaded starburst started at the peak of each shoulder, the lines themselves were very neat and tidy despite the beads being of varied sizes and shapes, but uniformly in a glass-like silver. The lines radiated out, making their way down the sleeve, the back of the dress, and warping slightly to frame the edge of her chest, ever so gently drawing attention to and enhancing the feminine curves of her upper torso. It was stunning in its simplicity and suited his wife very well. A matching bandeau tamed her lovely curls, and two slippers in the paler blush of the dress peeped out from under her skirts, finishing the look. She was, in a word, breathtaking.

"Is that a new dress?" he said, falling into step with her on their way back to the drawing room.

She spun around slowly. "Yes," she said. But she did not preen under the compliment, the spin and glint of defiance in her eyes made him wary of attempting another compliment.

"You seemed to get on well with Lady Matlock," he added when it was clear she was not inclined to elaborate.

"She is a pleasant lady."

Once again a short answer. Darcy felt himself become flushed, the easy banter she had with the other ladies was stripped away with their departure. Elizabeth was civil, though it was a cold civility. He tried again to draw her out.

"What did you talk of?"

"Nothing improper."

Darcy wanted to growl. Maybe he unconsciously did, because she added another tidbit, albeit reluctantly, that much was obvious. "Turns out we had an acquaintance in common."

"Oh really?" He tried to sound mildly interested, to encourage her.

"Does that surprise you?"

"I would be lying if I claimed otherwise. But then again, the Countess is very actively engaged in a number of charities, consequently she meets people from all walks of life."

She gave him a smile that had a very sharp edge. "So she consorts with my lowly kind?"

"I would not put it like that," he shook his head, "But there is a fine nuance of status in the upper class, Lady Matlock is more liberal than most."

"As are you."

"Me?"

What could she be getting at? Her smile, sharp though it had been, was now erased. Her expression had been wiped blank but her eyes glittered with fury.

"Bingley is hardly your equal, yet you were a guest in his home for months, I understand."

"Yes, well, that is different," he replied, still not sure where this was leading. "We have been friends for many years, since Cambridge. On the whole, most of my circle conforms with society's ideas, and my social position allows me some leeway in choosing my closer connections."

"And I have none? Must I pander only to those of greater social consequence? Should I throw off the companions of my youth?- Is that your edict for me?"

"I wish you would not put words in my mouth."

"But it matches your overall sentiment, does it not?"

Darcy winced. How did a compliment on her dress and an oblique reference to a shared acquaintance trigger such a furore? His wife's overall stance was defiant, but there was a slight tremor in her fingers. Perhaps he had been working her too hard; the morning lectures, the whole situation must be putting a mountain of pressure on the country girl.

He gave a long suffering sigh and encouraged her to take a seat, asking if she would pour him a cup of tea. Maybe if he could avoid saying more, since he could apparently say nothing right, the quarrel could be ended. He watched, temporarily mesmerised, as she arranged her skirts delicately, but the distraction only lasted until she placed the cup and saucer into his hands.

"I must suppose that the daughter of an Earl is much lower in consequence than the wife of one."

It took him a moment to place the context of the comment. So the acquaintance she held in common with Lady Matlock was an Earl's daughter. He reclined back in the chaise, balancing the tea cup on his knee and affecting a casualness he did not feel. Not just from his wife's badgering, but at how becoming she looked while executing said badgering. Though his wife shared the overlarge piece of furniture with him, she was at the far end and seemed to be almost bouncing with the desire to get away.

"Lady Margaret of Netherfield Park," she supplied though he had not enquired.

"Oh yes… Deceased – correct me if I am wrong. I don't think you ought to make too much of the connection. Having a house in the neighbourhood, I guess the family would have to make some contact with the locals, but I'm sure Her Ladyship meant nothing by it."

She said nothing further, but sat there still like a statue, so still that it was entirely possible that she had stopped breathing. He leant forward placing his tea cup onto the small table with a mild clatter, and reached over to take her dainty hand.

"The Countess seemed to view you favourably, and I have never seen Georgie take to someone so easily… You did well today Elizabeth."

His wife looked down at his hand grasping her own as if his appendage was some foreign and vaguely threatening object, then his face became the focus of her scrutiny. Her dark eyes were wide and searching, like he had also spoken in a foreign language, though her lips had formed a small _moue_ of disappointment. With an exaggerated dignity she shook her hand free of his grasp, got up slowly and walked from the room. No curtsey or explanation was offered even for politeness' sake. She did not even look back.

The first visit to their home had seemed to start with promise but ended with discord and acrimony. He was disappointed but not surprised when she sent down the message that she would take her evening meal in her rooms and retire early. What did surprise Darcy was how much he missed her company while he ate alone, and after due reflection upon their earlier conversation, how condescending he had sounded.

…

The next caller brought chaos to Darcy House and yet, perversely, a brief spell of harmony to the Darcy marriage.

After checking the poorly healed injury on one of his matching team of four, Darcy was discussing options with the stable master and the head coachman when an urgent message arrived.

The stable master was in favour of retiring the whole team soon and beginning to source and train their replacements. The coachman advocated changing the injured horse only, arguing the team had a year or two in them still and if a young horse was selected it may yet lead the new team. And the out-of-breath footman who skidded to a stop on the slate floors, slick from mucking, urged the Master to get inside, and quickly!

"Lady Catherine has arrived, Sir."

It was all Darcy needed to hear to spur him into action and momentum toward the house.

Darcy's long legs propelled him swiftly, quickly outdistancing the trotting footman. Even through the closed windows fronting the garden Darcy could hear the raised voices. His Aunt's shrill voice exploding with acrimony was unmistakable, but he could also discern another cultured alto responding in clipped tones, which despite their neat enunciation did not lack for volume.

As he made his way down the internal hallway towards his wife's preferred drawing room, the content became audible.

"You are naught but a shameful interloper! Mark my words, you shall be shunned by one and all, no one will take notice of you if I have anything to say about it. You will rue the day you ever set your cap at my nephew, you vile adventuress."

"I will not be spoken to with so much disrespect within the walls of my own home. Try for some decorum, would you! If you cannot be civil, I suggest you await my husband in his study."

"Your home!... This was my sister's home. You pollute it down to its foundations with your very presence, you upstart! Who are you to marry my nephew? You are nothing but a country chit of questionable pedigree and respectability! Do not for a moment doubt that your cousin has informed me of all I need to know about you."

"Who my relatives are is no choice of mine, but the fact that you willingly choose to associate with someone such as Mr. Collins says much more about you than it does about me, and let me be clear, my intent is not to compliment," replied Elizabeth in a tone so cold one could catch their death from it.

The tableau he encountered upon entering the drawing room was nothing short of spectacular: Lady Catherine wore a shimmering green travelling dress, matched perfectly with a similar green bonnet that she had obviously forgotten to remove in her unseemly haste to accost the new Mrs. Darcy. The bonnet sported a jaunty orange ostrich feather, which bobbed around in time with Lady Catherine venting her spleen.

The way the rather majestically-proportioned green-clad Lady loomed over his wife put him in mind of a dragon molesting a princess, but unlike a fairy-tale damsel in distress, Elizabeth was no wilting flower. On the contrary, she was standing up for herself, her composure was not perfect, but remarkable in face of the extreme provocation. Her spine was perfectly straight and her face self-possessed, except for a rosy circle on each cheek, while Lady Catherine was completely red in the face, her chest heaving in outrage and fury, spittle even flying from her mouth as she began berating Mrs. Darcy again.

"ENOUGH!"

Both ladies' heads snapped around to regard a clearly furious Darcy. Elizabeth stepped back, her eyes flickering with chagrin. Her movement also served to reveal his cousin Anne watching the combatants from a seated position. She looked abnormally well, but it was neither here nor there at this point. His first priority was to separate his wife and his aunt swiftly!

"Oh dear nephew, thank goodness you are here! You would not believe the abuse this vulgar creature has been heaping upon me," said Lady Catherine, her address turned to that of spun sugar.

"You are right, I would not believe it. I had the privilege of hearing a portion of your discourse thus far and I suggest you accompany me to my study right now or I will forcibly eject you from my home."

Darcy was hard pressed to decide who was the most shocked: he was more than surprised by the words that had leapt from his own mouth, his wife was regarding him in a manner that suggested she had never seen him before, and Lady Catherine was mouth agape, clutching her heart as if staging a Shakespearean tragedy. The reactions of those in the room were rounded out neatly by his cousin Anne who smiled… very much like she was viewing a particularly good comedy.

His eyes once again found Elizabeth, who was gazing at him levelly.

"Our home," she said slowly, with just a hint of wavering uncertainty he imagined to be discernible only to him.

Time slowed. In her eyes he read the momentous nature of the statement come enquiry. He nodded in his mind, sure of the right decision, even if he was not clear on the why, then nodded his actual head. "Yes, our home."

Lady Catherine scoffed loudly.

"Study. Now. Or out. Take your pick." he snapped.

Though the harridan made her way down the hall, it was with continuous harping on the manners of the lower classes, and the foolishness of men who followed their appendages rather than their heads into matrimony, turning against their relatives who only wanted the best for them.

Darcy turned a deaf ear to her vitriol, waiting until the heavy door to his private sanctuary clicked shut. He sighed.

"Aunt, what could you have been thinking? Barging into my house in this reprehensible manner? Abusing my wife? Making a spectacle for the servants. –Tell me, for I am inordinately curious. What were you thinking of?" His speech was quiet, yet still retained a strong undercurrent of steel. His visage matched: there was something stony, implacable about his darkened eyes. If he had known how much his expression reminded Lady Catherine of her father –the only person in her life she had ever feared– he would have catalogued his air for later use, but as it was, he only saw her tremble.

"I was thinking of you Darcy, and how to get you out of this mess you have landed in," she said, more calmly than he had anticipated. The shrill volume was gone, but he discovered he found wheedling equally distasteful.

"There is no releasing me from this union, which by the way is none of your business. It was sealed by God, for no man or woman to tear asunder."

"Annulments are not unheard of."

Another sigh from Darcy, but this one was directed at what was to come rather than what had been said before. He rubbed his wrist surreptitiously.

"Annulments create scandal, barely less so than a divorce, I have grounds for neither."

"You are determined to have her then?" his aunt asked quietly, but he saw her eyes narrow.

"I already have her and I am determined for you to accept her. Whoever she was before, she is Mrs. Darcy now." The steely edge was back in his voice again.

"You are not the head of this family!" she bellowed, her timbre slipping towards indignation again.

"I may not be head of the Fitzwilliam family, but I am head of the Darcy family. If you do not make peace with my wife you cannot be accepted into our houses or recognised by us in public. It would send the wrong message."

Rather than meeting the explicit demand head on, Lady Catherine's reply was, "What about Anne?"

"The best thing for Anne would be for you to publicly embrace my wife, demonstrate that there was never any engagement between Anne and I."

"Never any engagement?" she snarled.

Darcy consciously unclenched his fists and rolled his jaw, before continuing. "Any notion of an engagement between Anne and myself has been nothing more than a figment of your own imagination. I was never bound by duty or inclination to your daughter. You make yourself, and more importantly your daughter, ridiculous by persisting with this delusion."

"Ridiculous!" his aunt cried. "I will tell you what is ridiculous, you losing your head over some country chit who should have been good for a quick romp, not to foist on your whole family, you naive boy. It is the talk of Meryton, how you could not keep paws off her. Why don't I make it the talk of London? I offer you Rosings on a silver platter and you throw it away on a… on a… bit of muslin!"

"Out!"

When she looked poised to begin another offensive tirade, he shouted "Out!" even louder. When she did not move, either from stubbornness or shock, he cupped her elbow and marched her to the door.

As Darcy anticipated, Soames was standing a little ways down the hall, guarding his door from eavesdroppers and staying just outside of earshot himself. "Please escort Lady Catherine directly to her conveyance, and in future she is not to be received in the drawing room but is to be escorted straight to my study, should she call."

"Do not talk over me like I am some idiot child!" she spluttered.

"Then stop acting as one," he retorted in a harsh whisper, "Do not talk, just leave. I cannot vouch for my temper right now, and if you continue to press me you may just make this break permanent. If you move against us, you will find out who has more clout when I retaliate. Go now, and return when you have an apology for my wife and for myself."

"I know how to act." Pronounced his aunt shrugging him off and gliding towards the foyer where they found Anne, already waiting, her outer gear restored. She obviously knew enough of her mother to know that once she got going their welcome would be short. Wisely, Elizabeth was not present to exacerbate the barely contained situation.

"I take no leave of you, send no compliments to your wife, you deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased," Lady Catherine said imperiously. "Come Anne."

His cousin gave him a saucy wink before practically skipping down the stairs. Darcy had not seen her do that since she was a little girl, prior to her illness.

Once their uninvited guests were on their way, he returned to the drawing room, where he found a pale faced Mrs. Darcy awaiting him. "I'm sorry," he said.

"I should not have raised my voice; I am the one who is sorry?" she replied, her little teeth taking hold of her lower lip.

He laughed shaking his head, and was pleased to see the corners of her lips twitch in an involuntary, hesitant reply. "You faced down the dragon, and not only survived but I think triumphed, that is nothing to apologise for," he said, his voice quiet but brimming with feeling.

Her smile widened… and his heart expanded.

"Do you not think that is a rather disrespectful thing to say about your Aunt?"

The reply came to his lips without thought, "Maybe, but it is quite accurate."

Her chortle of acknowledgement was music to his ears. It was a distinctly pleasant thing, being in accord with one's spouse. When he next encountered his aunt, he'd have to tell her how she had contributed to the felicity of his marriage that day, thank her even, for he knew how much Lady Catherine loved to be of use.

"I appreciate that, but you should not beat yourself up. Not everyone can have a family as perfect as mine," she said with an arch look.

They smirked at each other, exchanging a look of complicity. Yes, it was really quite nice being in agreement.


	8. The Fitzwilliams

**A/N: Oh dear readers, I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I have no specific excuse. My house was just as crazy as usual, my kids got up to mischief, my husband didn't stop them and many dinners and loads of clean washing have been ruined.**

 **Mostly this chapter was just more difficult to write. But I hope the length compensates for the delay. I have to credit the wonderful chat girls over at AHA for helping me with the details in this chapter, and a special chat chick (you know who you are) who helped me get rid of some of the more sneaky mistakes. Once again Lenniee, my amazing Beta, I could not do it without your tireless work!**

 **If I have not said so already, then I'd to take this opportunity to state that although this work (Reluctantly Mrs. Darcy) is inspired by the timeless Jane Austen classic, the rights to this specific work are reserved to the author, and that any unauthorised reproduction or publishing of any part of content is prohibited.**

 **Please don't forget to review, your support kept me going when my characters just refused to do what they were told and the scenes refused to let themselves be written.**

 **Enjoy**

…..

 _Dearest Cassandra,_

 _The thought that I must henceforth refer to you as 'Your Grace' in public makes me laugh. It is absurd, and yet I am happy for you, and even more delighted in your luck in securing a match of affection for the dismal life I find in a marriage of duty. But you must also promise me again that you will not let your greater consequence alter you, just as I will not let my strained circumstances impinge upon my spirit._

 _I eagerly await your return to town. In the unfortunate position I find myself in, I need as many allies as I can garner._

 _Surprisingly I made one friend, perhaps two, this week._

 _The friendship I find myself sure of is that of my new sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy. She is as fair as her brother is dark, and shy where he is all haughtiness. But once you crack that self-conscious shell, she is a dear sweet girl with a gentle intelligence and underlying eagerness to please. Music is her true passion. For this alone you will like her, I am sure: the pair of you will spend hours discussing the best fingering methods for difficult concertos until I am so bored I could cry!_

 _She also enjoys reading immensely, though her reading tastes have been rather tame up to this point; I shall remedy that. Yes, I can see us rubbing along very well while she is with us and I equally foresee myself mourning her loss greatly when she marries and naturally aways to her new home._

 _Georgiana, accompanied by the venerable Lady Matlock, were my first visitors to Darcy house. I was surprised to see them, since my husband had decreed we were to have no company until the third week of our honeymoon came to a close. Yes, he decreed, he did not consult or enquire, but laid down the law, as he is prone to do._

 _But I digress. Now back to Lady Matlock, she is not the second friend I speak of. Although the Countess liked me well enough, I suspect her impressive dignity would never invite a close friendship with one such as I. She has offered me her wary approval, but I remain sure it is on sufferance. I can surmise that she will closely watch my behaviour at the upcoming family dinner, for which I am to act as hostess, and at the various social engagements we have scheduled in the next weeks. Lady Matlock will determine whether I am asset or liability to the family, groom me accordingly, and whatever her personal opinions, will still push me to act to the benefit of all. Do you think me cynical, my dear friend? You would not if you had met her: she is formidable; she will use me, but I do not anticipate any gratuitous unkindness from her._

 _The same cannot be said of my husband's other aunt, Lady Catherine De Bourgh. She is a spectacular termagant who descended upon us this morning to make her sentiments on our marriage known._

 _How to describe the lady?... She has all the taste in dress of my mother, and now that I think on it, I imagine she is just as my mother would be, if a lack of breeding and financial resources had not forced Mama to be cunning, for Lady Catherine was all brash malice, expressed suddenly and loudly. My husband rushed to my rescue, carting the shrew off to the study. I could scarcely imagine Mr. Darcy as a knight-errant, but he carried out his commission admirably and promptly. I may even admit he looked quite dashing in his temper. See now… I do have a nice thing to say about him… once in a while._

 _Now who is this mysterious 'perhaps friend'? I hear you ask. I am also sure you are silently cursing my circuitous writing style. Well, I put great effort into making my letters entertaining, not like your drab dumps of information._

 _Anyway, back to the second friend… Lady Catherine had brought her daughter with her, Miss Anne De Bourgh. I found her to be a very pleasant person and detected a shimmering bubble of mischief under her prim demeanour that promised she had the potential of becoming a delightful companion, but here is where the plot thickened…_

 _It turned out there had been a longstanding hope of an alliance betwixt herself and my own Mr. Darcy. On the one side I felt terrible for stealing her beau, and equally terrible that I had to marry him at all. On the other end of the scale, I was tempted to tell her not to mourn him, for living with Mr. Darcy three weeks has cemented in my mind that he is no prize (my what a bitter turn my letter has taken!) and that she ought to be grateful that I took the bullet intended for her._

 _Before I could even voice any apologies she cut me off sweetly, saying that although she liked her cousin Darcy, she never had any desire to marry him, not that he had ever deigned to ask. The purported engagement was a scheme of her mother's, aimed at getting Miss De Bourgh away to Pemberley as Mrs. Darcy, thus allowing Lady Catherine to continue to rule her Kent fiefdom known as 'Rosings' unchallenged._

 _Do you remember that affliction Peonie Prewett from school suffered? –Well, the other affliction beside that awful name of hers, that is –the wheezes?_

 _Well, Miss De Bourgh has battled a similar condition since her late childhood. With her weakened state, she oft times found it easier to simply go along with her mother's delusions rather than muster the energy to contradict her. She is now under the treatment of a retired army surgeon who has done her ten times more good than all the fashionable physicians from town ever could. How did a sheltered country Lady procure the services of a grizzled surgeon fresh from the continent, I hear you ask? Well as they say, curiosity killed the cat, so I will satisfy yours…_

 _Another Fitzwilliam cousin. The younger son of the Earl of Matlock is in service to her Majesty and is known to one and all as Colonel Fitzwilliam. We can assume that the many horrors he's seen on the continent have endowed him with sufficient grit to stand up to the redoubtable Lady Catherine, a feat he duly accomplished. Dismissing Anne's latest in a long line of quacks, he installed the surgeon –for want of a better term, as I daresay he is more knowledgeable than most garden variety doctors— in an estate cottage. The surgeon, a Mr. Peters, has since developed a thriving business, pushing the rather barbaric local doctor out of the village, and Miss De Bourgh is thriving equally._

 _I look forward to meeting the CoIonel, and likewise would have liked to pump my new cousin for more information on my new family at large, but alas it was not to be. My husband's tête-à-tête with his Aunt ended sooner and with less fanfare than I had anticipated. Lady Catherine left in high dudgeon dragging her reluctant but amused daughter with her. I doubt we shall see her again for some time, as I was given to understand Lady Catherine is not welcome in our home or presence until she renders an apology to me. I think she'd rather eat worms._

 _Hence I do not anticipate seeing Miss De Bourgh again for some time, as I cannot imagine her domineering mother would sanction a friendship between us. A pity, I sensed in her a kindred spirit. Thus ends the petty gossip section of this missive; I hope you enjoyed it._

 _Speaking of kindred spirits, the term could not be applied any more erroneously than to a couple such as my husband and I. And yet, at the end of his aunt's rather momentous visit, for a brief spell we were in accord._

 _I tell you Cassandra, it is truly a crime for such a handsome face to be allied to such an unpleasant man. But when he smiled yesterday, I found myself to be in much more charity with him. He had taken quite a significant stand against his aunt, and though I know it served the dual purpose of protecting the Darcy name, the fact cannot be denied that he defended me strenuously against his own flesh and blood._

 _Our surprising truce lasted through both the afternoon and our evening meal. He agreed with my request for Georgiana to return earlier than initially planned. She will now accompany the Fitzwilliams to Dinner but remain with us from Christmas eve. My relief at this allowance is immense._

 _A brief discussion of Georgiana carried us through the meal and yet, don't they say all good things must come to an end?_

 _When we settled in the music room, the setting of many past uncomfortable silences, the conversation dried up like a bucket of water poured upon desert sand. I may have exerted myself to revive our former camaraderie, but my dear Husband has his own idea of how to spend an evening. He said, and I quote, "Perhaps you could take up the piano tonight so that I can assess your skill… You will find an extensive range of music in the gilded bookcase to the left; I believe the sheets from Georgiana's earlier years of learning can be found in the drawers at the bottom."_

 _No 'please', no 'would you oblige me with a song?' Just a cold, emotionless demand that I perform for his scrutiny with an insult thrown in._

 _When my mouth opened in predictable outrage, he hastened to add, "Do not worry, you will have ample time and opportunity to practice once we relocate to Pemberley. I have ordered a small instrument to be placed in your private chambers. But this season at least, we will have to contrive a plausible excuse for you to demur."_

 _What thoughtful contempt! I held my temper by the barest thread. I did not yell, but also did not correct him, for if I were to open my mouth for anything, it could have spewed forth a tirade worthy of his Aunt. After sitting for some minutes shivering with rage, I finally found sufficient composure to get up and leave. His parting shot was a puzzled enquiry of "Do you not play?" To which I replied, "I'd rather retire for the night."_

 _That was nearly two hours ago. If the clock and my husband's past inclinations are anything to go by, I can sit secure in the knowledge that he will not come to me tonight. A wise decision, as I could not vouch for the safety of his person, particularly any dangly bits, if he dared venture into my company tonight._

 _Sitting at my desk I give a deep sigh every few minutes. Writing to you like this is nothing short of cathartic. Inside I am still the impertinent Miss you know and love, but I do get so exhausted walking on eggshells in this miserable house._

 _And yet you will never read this letter, all my disclosures most delicate will have to wait until I see you in person. You will get a bland boring missive that you would not credit to be mine were it not in my handwriting, while this true confession of my situation and feelings will be fed to the fire…._

Elizabeth stood and slowly made her way over to the fireplace as if in a trance. Her deft ink stained fingers made a sizeable ball of the freshly written sheets before tossing them into the fire. She watched the crimson flames greedily devour the mutinous missive, a small scowl marring her features.

If White considered it odd that she was burning a letter she had laboured on for over an hour, she did not voice any scorn, a singular but welcome occurrence. Perhaps the maid merely sensed Elizabeth's dangerous mood, because this evening she was a tightly coiled spring, filled with tension ready to snap forth and lash out at anyone who threatened her composure.

Elizabeth's aunt had suggested she meet her husband halfway, but her only successes were in restraining her temper and sometimes she could not even manage that much. She spent so much time biting down on angry retorts, Elizabeth feared she would one day actually bite her tongue through and make herself a permanent mute, not just a selective one.

Returning to her escritoire, Elizabeth sealed the letter that would actually be dispatched to her friend, and began a list of tasks to accomplish in preparation for Christmas eve. It would be the first time she would entertain as hostess and her first event as Mrs. Darcy. She was suitably apprehensive but this was offset by her great determination. She was _not_ a provincial simpleton and she would prove that in a manner more valid than mere words.

….

He looked up at the familiar façade of Darcy House, lit by six torches abutting the wide steps with another set of glowing lanterns placed on either side of the imposing ruby red front door. The framing plasterwork depicting various woodland creatures peeking through a forest of scalloped leaves was soothing in the shadows thrown by the flickering flames, unlike the rather poorly proportioned lions adorning his family's townhouse, which looked ridiculous by day and decidedly sinister by night. Though the interior of his cousin's house would generally be regarded as too 'grandiose' to inspire familiarity, it had always felt like a second home to him, behind Pemberley, and long behind his father's own London townhouse and even beneath the Matlock seat in Derbyshire.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had no real complaints with regards to his upbringing. His parents had fed, clothed and educated him, they had visited the nursery tolerably often and been generous in their praise of his accomplishments as they arose. He did receive a few thorough canings from his father, but they were well earned and he got away with a great deal more than he had been caught and punished for.

It was better than many children of his class received but less than others. One of the _others_ who had garnered more from his parents was his own brother, James Theodore Fitzwilliam, or Lord Carbeck.

James had always been the apple of the Earl's eye and likewise first in his mother's affection. His preferment had extended to the pecuniary, being the older brother he was heir to the Earl's title and fortune, thus perfectly secure in his future. The young Lord also happened to possess a golden handsomeness, was polite, adept academically and equally proficient in sport pursuits. In short, everything one would hope for in the first son of the house. Where did his brother's position in life end and his personality begin? It was a question Richard Fitzwilliam had never been able to answer in his youth.

The resentment he had felt for his brother was a subtle thing, always lurking at the edges of their interactions but never explicitly expressed. There really hadn't been anything in the golden boy to hate, he was never unkind and the future dispensation of the estate was hardly his doing. But he had found his older sibling to be just too perfect, too secure, too well liked. It rankled the young cheeky boy, who though very smart, was perhaps intelligent in a more unconventional manner.

If they'd had it out one day, a physical altercation or a good shouting match, they would have undoubtedly had a better relationship. But although James never intentionally rebuffed his younger brother's friendship, Richard had been both wary of upsetting and of trusting him, hence he remained neither confident enough nor willing to bridge the gap.

Another barrier to a closer relationship with his blood brother had been his rather exclusionary friendship with the brother of his heart. He knew not how or when it had exactly happened, but as long as he could remember, Darcy had always been his best friend.

Whether it was a beneficial relationship was a matter of some debate. Young Darcy had a frightful temper and was not as experienced in controlling it as his older cousin. In the early years both boys were soundly rebuked when dissension deteriorated into tussles.

Likewise, Darcy stoically had taken his portion of the punishment –sometimes corporal— without complaint or recriminations when the pranks Richard had cajoled him into went wrong, or even worse when they went entirely right and the boys were discovered after the fact.

They were inseparable. Taking turns, they divided their time between Pemberley and Matlock, allowing only brief spells of separation, coming together again in town, where the precious duo insisted that the families' respective townhouses were too far apart. For a span their complaints would fall on deaf ears, but the pair devised to be so devilishly naughty and disruptive, their parents had eventually been forced to relent.

For the most part in both summers and winters it was Richard who was integrated into the Darcy household. In his mind it was another instance of the Earl's and Countess's parental indifference. Little did he know that a potential brother lost near to term and a subsequent early miscarriage had caused the doctors to declare his mother barren. A diagnosis that laid her exceedingly low for some time, but ever the aristocrats, the Matlocks had concealed their struggles, even from their own children.

At the lost possibility of future offspring, most would anticipate a greater cherishing of the existing progeny. By the time young Captain Richard Fitzwilliam learnt of his parents' reproductive woes he had sufficient experience with the aftermath of war to know that depression and logic were not close acquaintances. As a child, the perceived rejection had smarted and made him cleave to Darcy even more tightly.

His Aunt Darcy was ever the affectionate sort, lavishing the boys with hugs and kisses long after the age where they were appreciated. She had not been able to conceal her struggles from either of the boys under her care, and though in the earlier years the source of her bouts of frailty followed by periods of melancholy were unfathomable to both boys, they had brought her gifts, devised entertainments and just stayed close by. In being infinitely more frail and human than his own mother, he found it easier to love and treasure his aunt, and the feeling of actually being able to act to remedy her sadness supported a burgeoning self-confidence untarnished by his infallible brother.

Furthermore, this attitude was promoted by Uncle Darcy in frequent man-to-man talks he initiated with the impressionable boys. Uncle Darcy had frequently extolled the importance of respect and care in a marriage. "From respect grows love; a very different beast to infatuation. Infatuation is often a cruel mistress, harsher than indifference, but it can also be as a caterpillar, and with respect and affection it can unfurl into the butterfly of love," he would say. A heavy message to impart to boys years away from puberty, but like many things said by his Uncle Darcy, the message simmered in his maturing mind until he could understand it better and slot it in with the restrictions he would labour under with respect to finding a bride, as a poor second son.

But butterflies have such a short life span, and when Richard was sixteen and his cousin not yet fifteen Lady Anne Darcy slipped away. She left a precious bundle in the form of the angelic Georgiana Darcy but it was not enough. When she departed she took her husband with her, in spirit if not in body. After drifting listlessly along for seven more years Uncle Darcy followed his wife into the hereafter and surprisingly, in his will named Richard, on the cusp of a Captaincy, as co-guardian of the young Darcy girl. It was one of the proudest moments of his life.

His cousin Darcy and he had shared in life's joys but more importantly had been united in life's sorrows. The joint responsibility for Georgiana –a rather daunting task for two young bachelors— and their deep sorrow over the passing of Darcy's parents brought the pair even closer together, if such a thing was possible.

And now the brother of his heart, his closest confidante had gone and married, seemingly out of the blue. Even though Darcy had known he was bound in England –courtesy of his barely healed injury— no letter had arrived, or invitation to the wedding, and he also suspected Darcy had actively avoided him when he must have come to town to arrange the marriage settlement.

But Colonel Fitzwilliam had never been the hot headed one, he would hear his cousin out and not castigate him until he knew –even if he did not understand—the motives behind his subterfuge. He owed him that much trust at least, even if all evidence pointed towards him being accorded none.

Whatever the case, there was a new Mrs. Darcy now and things would never be the same, but if Darcy had found his true love, he would outwardly support him, if only to prove that the bridegroom's uncharacteristic reticence was completely unwarranted.

Swallowing his disappointment, again, as well as a ball of trepidation, he followed his _immediate_ family through the door, handing his outerwear to Soames automatically while his eyes searched the foyer for the new addition to his treasured _extended_ family.

The elaborate hairstyles and outfits of the ladies accompanying and preceding him concealed the view of the hostess that he knew would be standing next to his cousin. He surmised she was tiny, considering that he could see Darcy's head and upper torso, but nothing of her. He moved to the left, where the men of his party stood next to the ladies, nearly circling the newlyweds. Between the legs of his father and brother he glimpsed a tiny pair of feet clad in melon coloured slippers, remarkable only for their colour, as they exhibited no other adornment. A turn in positions, his brother shifting slightly sideways, allowed him to spy the sage green skirt of a gown. What he could see was just as simple and elegant as the slippers, denuded of the usual plethora of lace and bows. His eyes travelled up the dress, noting that the sheen of the gown was accented by a print in a stylised pattern of… flowers perhaps? The motif was variegated, switching between a shade of melon parallel to the slippers and a gently shimmering rose gold.

As Darcy made the introduction to Lady Carbeck –or Lady Cynthia as was— she turned. The pattern continued on the back of the dress, but although the depictions were uniform in shape and size, their disbursement seemed random and yet perfectly appropriate. His mind registered that they had the haphazard perfection of things of nature. And thinking of the sublime beauty of nature, the feminine curves the dress and pattern encased, they were light and pleasing enough to make a man's mouth go dry. A small hand, much smaller than young Georgiana's or even his mother's, reached out to touch Georgiana's arm in a rather familiar manner and then the lady's head, piled high with rich ebony curls, began to turn, as he saw his cousin gesture to Lord Matlock and then James.

The face that he could now observe was as far from what he expected as was possible. _Was she beautiful?_ That answer would probably be in the eye of the beholder.

Her face was perhaps a touch too wide, her tiny pointed nose had a few partially faded freckles, the flash of teeth he saw were tolerable, he supposed, but the lips that closed to hide them were full and pouty; overall the daintiness of her bone structure and the harmonious combination of her features rendered her handsome enough.

That was until you reached those arresting dark eyes: large, widely spaced and dancing with amusement, they were the loveliest feature of her face. The magnificent eyes were framed by eyebrows that strangely flicked at the ends… She arched one such brow, cocked her head slightly and let the mischievous smile that had been hereto confined to her eyes, spread across her entire countenance…

Ah yes, when she smiled she was beautiful, exceptionally beautiful, but not in the fashionable way, and she certainly was in no way the pattern card of a bold seductress.

Quick thinking and cautious suspicion had formed a large part of his career for years, thus Colonel Fitzwilliam was excellent at reading people rapidly. Admittedly he was better with men than women, but even so he would eat his hat if the new Mrs. Darcy turned out to be the type to entrap a man through arts and allurements. Her countenance radiated light-hearted mischief, but not seduction or practised deceit.

He realised he had been staring and that it was long his turn to be introduced. The laughter in her eyes was like a mirror for his foibles. After a self-conscious cough he made a passable leg and stepped forward to take her hand.

Darcy, he noted, edged closer to place a hand upon her shoulder, two fingers on the neckline of her dress, the other two resting on bare flesh. Was his cousin jealous of this small act of gallantry or had marriage just made him a rather amorous fellow? The new Mrs. Darcy winced lightly at his touch, and as for Darcy himself, his face was unreadable. Something was off there…

Mrs. Darcy's warm voice broke into his reverie, inviting him into the drawing room. Before he could strike up much of a conversation with the new addition to his family, she was commandeered by his demanding sister-in-law who claimed to be in desperate need of Mrs. Darcy's opinion on some inanity or other. A ruse, judging by how much Lady Carbeck talked and how little she actually solicited her hostess's thoughts. As the young bride's face became unnaturally still, a subtle shift in her shoulders betrayed her growing irritation with his nattering in-law. The Colonel moved to defuse the situation. They would no doubt quarrel, he knew no-one who could get along with Lady Carbeck for any length of time unless they were a complete sycophant, but she apparently did not need rescuing. Extricating herself efficiently, she set a course for Lord Matlock, offering him a refill, and once said refill was dispensed, engaging him in conversation. The same cute little arching of the eyebrow flashed before she uttered some statement to his father coupled with a smirk. The Earl gave a large guffaw, quite an unrestrained response for his habitually stately father. And this time it was Darcy who winced and fixed his bride with a dark stare from his position on the loveseat beside Georgiana and opposite his mother.

He felt a presence beside him, and then a glass of brandy was shoved into his hand by his brother, Lord Carbeck, formerly the golden child, now the barely reformed rake. "A bit heavy before the evening has even started in earnest, don't you think?" quipped the Colonel, his glass in mild consternation.

"I would say that you are the one who is _not_ thinking. Keep your eyes on your drink, and stop ogling our new cousin. Lest Darcy throw you out on your ear."

The Colonel's eyes narrowed, but he shrugged; he had unconsciously switched his gaze back to the girl. It was not lecherous –well not entirely. She was quite unaffectedly engaging, she drew attention without intention or discernible vanity, but he was also intrigued by the puzzle of the situation. Darcy was ill at ease but he didn't strike him as jealous. He did watch his bride closely, and the Colonel often caught Darcy's speculative eyes trying to burn a hole through him, but the bridegroom's searching gaze also crept over the older members of the party and even Georgiana. Surely an older married man, a matron and a girl fresh from the school room could have no sinister designs on Mrs. Darcy. His cousin even flicked Lady Cynthia –technically Lady Carbeck but he hated to grant her that family title even in his private thoughts— with frequent wary glances.

"What is your opinion of the girl?" queried the Colonel forcing his eyes away from the social tableau, considering instead a rather ugly painting over the mantelpiece with undue diligence.

"My opinion… of a woman I have just met and exchanged five perhaps six words with… is not yet formed," drawled Lord Carbeck, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve, "But fortunately I have had a ready opinion supplied to me by our dear mother in advance. We are to like Mrs. Darcy, not too much of course, but accord the couple our support in public… or she will have our guts for garters."

"Those were her exact words? I can hardly credit Mother being so coarse."

"Not with you naturally; now that I have disappointed the family so greatly, I am treated to her rather uncouth idioms. As if I do not have enough of that from Lady Carbeck," his brother finished bitterly.

Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed his lips together to avoid a cat-like grin. Lady Carbeck was a harpy – or a dozen other words not fit for polite company. He was sorry to have met the woman, let alone bearing the cross of having her as a family member. But since the rather disastrous marriage, his brother had become a new and infinitely more likeable personage. Colonel Fitzwilliam conceded that he might be alone in that opinion, his parents certainly mourned James' former graceful tractability. The new Lord Carbeck was bitter to be sure, but his bitterness had sparked a caustic wit that the Colonel quite enjoyed. He also found his hereto 'perfect' brother engaging in vices he had formerly been aghast at made him more… approachable? In thirty years as brothers they had only become friends in the last five. It was a peculiar but welcome change.

"She is comely, but not what I would have expected Darce to go for," continued his brother breaking the thread of his thoughts.

"You know he hates that moniker."

A quick grin was his only reply.

"I thought he'd marry someone like the Winnsfield chit: tall, blonde, well bred… vacuous but beautiful, completely fashionable and completely boring."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, his tone low. "You seem to know a great deal about Miss Winnsfield, despite the fact she did not come out until the second year of your marriage."

"Oh settle down brother, I encountered her a few times when I was hunting a very different quarry… her much older sister, truth be told. And before you start lecturing me, I will stipulate that the affair with the widowed Mrs. Brackton was passionate but short lived. It's been over for years. Please, do not quarrel with me over past mistakes, I get more than my quota of that from Mother. I am trying to set a standard of respectability for the sake of the children. Many of the rumours of late are pure fabrication, they only flourish because of my past indiscretions. I have been chaste for some time and will continue on this path for a while longer."

"You know it will do no good if you do not also force your wife into a higher standard of behaviour," replied the Colonel pragmatically.

"Noted. Why do you think she is here tonight? I have forbidden her access to certain unsavoury friends and curtailed her allowance, making payment dependant on continued good behaviour."

"Can you even do that?"

Lord Carbeck rubbed his hands over his eyes letting out a weary sigh, "I should not be able to, but I have an agreement with her younger brother, who is becoming increasingly embarrassed by her antics. She will not be permitted sanctuary there. He is not blind to what she is, but unlike his father, he does not make excuses for her moral shortcomings. I do not mean to be cruel or overbearing, but she cannot be allowed to continue to make those around her miserable. I care not for myself so much, but for the boys. I'll keep her in the country for the next twenty years if that's what it takes for her to behave, though I have little hope of true reform."

"Well, in answer to your earlier enquiry, Darcy has always placed a lot more stock on the compatibility of a potential bride than fashion, connections or beauty."

"What tripe!" retorted his brother, but did not elaborate further, as at that moment they were called into to dinner.

Colonel Fitzwilliam again had little opportunity to engage the new Mrs. Darcy in any light-hearted conversation. Though his placement towards her right, separated from the hostess by only one place, should have made some intercourse natural, Lord Carbeck was dominating her attention in a lightly flirtatious manner that had the host and the rest of the company fuming. Except perhaps Georgiana, who shifted on her seat in an agitated fashion, more fitting for a girl of five than fifteen.

It was not until halfway through the first remove that Mrs. Darcy escaped the pointed attentions, prettily insisting that he try a dish that was a firm favourite of hers. The willy vixen waited until Lord Carbeck was unavoidably occupied masticating the excessively chewy dish to rotate her head and ask Lord Matlock a question that progressed naturally to a light discussion that encompassed half the guests.

 _How old was the girl?_ He could scarcely imagine Darcy robbing a school room for a bride, but then again, neither could he have fathomed Darcy would choose for his wife a country Miss with naught but her charms to recommend her.

As to the host himself, Darcy said nothing beyond the very least of civilities. Instead, his eyes –and he dared venture his mind— were fixated on the happenings at the other end of the table. The observance was clearly not of the lovesick persuasion; rather, Darcy's eyes seemed to narrow each time she happened to laugh, and his expressions suggested the man measured and weighed each utterance from his wife. Was he mentally castigating her from Lord Carbeck's mischief? He hoped not. Had he been seated next to Darcy he may have given him a nudge, but the table had of course been arranged by precedence rather than ease of conversation.

By the time the third remove had been laid, it was plain to see Georgiana was flagging despite all the Christmas treats the table contained. Mrs. Darcy eyed the girl kindly, letting the conversation lapse into a lower frequency to accommodate a more prompt finish to the meal.

"So Darcy, when were you planning to share the details of this manufacturing venture I keep hearing about?" volleyed Lord Carbeck loudly into the tapering hush. Mrs. Darcy quickly concealed a scowl behind a look of genteel interest.

"There are not yet any concrete details to share. I have an idea of creating a model of small scale industry in the community, to keep the young men from following the siren's call to the factory towns. How to make such a venture, profitable or even viable, I can barely tell, but I do have some formative ideas," replied the host.

"Well do share, Darcy! Unless you would be giving away your _trade_ secrets, that is."

Mrs. Darcy looked sharply at his Lord Carbeck, who for all the world looked like the cat who got the cream.

"Obviously transport of goods may be somewhat of a challenge. Not being convenient to a port, excessively large items will not be feasible, neither for bringing in the raw materials or transporting the completed goods." Here Darcy paused, and the pinched look that had marred his countenance thus far seemed to relax. "Ethical working conditions will be paramount to the operation: decent hours, decent wages and above all safety."

"I do think this conversation is a more appropriate accompaniment for brandy and cigars, wouldn't you agree ladies?" said Lady Carbeck, her voice heavily laden with fashionable ennui, though a satisfied smirk lifted the right corner of her mouth as she regarded the hostess of the evening, with a glint in her eye.

Only Richard heard the sharp hiss emitted by his father in answer to the inherent insult, or saw neat little teeth briefly latch onto Mrs. Darcy's full lower lip, her concerned eyes darting to Georgiana once more before she schooled her expression. Though her face was self-possessed again, she could not dim the burn of curiosity in her eyes. Georgiana smiled shyly at her sister, giving a silent assent, and Elizabeth's lips turned up at the corners slightly.

"Lady Matlock, what say you? Should we take part in this weighty discussion or make our way to the music room to wait for our menfolk?" asked Elizabeth deferentially.

By leaning forward very slightly the Countess directed a small nod of approval at Mrs. Darcy, but pursed her lips at encountering Lady Carbeck's petulant stare. "As ladies of rank, we have a responsibility to our tenants and the occupants of villages that came under our protection; we cannot discharge the responsibility if we cling to ignorance."

Lady Carbeck shrugged, but her tight jaw belied any attempt at insouciance.

Brushing aside the emotional undertones of her guests, Mrs. Darcy engaged in the topic with every appearance of eagerness. "The improved working conditions, though admirable, will surely affect your ability to turn a profit, will they not? Wouldn't it be rather easy for any competition to undercut you in order to put you out of operation before you become an established nuisance?" she asked, looking to her husband.

Colonel Fitzwilliam watched Darcy's eyes widen in surprise. "I thought as much myself. The solution may lie in producing something that requires a certain level of skill and artistry, that way we might be able to entice artisans with a better quality of life."

"But wouldn't that defeat the purpose? I thought you wished to support working class locals in staying in the area, not draw skilled others into the neighbourhood."

Darcy's reply to the challenge was prompt and measured. "I envisaged them training and supervising those deemed promising for the advanced tasks, but you must also appreciate that there are an equal or greater number of ancillary labourers required to allow the experts to dedicate themselves to their work. Packaging, preparing materials, keeping the workshop clean and maintaining equipment, for instance."

Rather than raising his ire, to all appearances the debate was soothing Darcy's prevalent agitation. Loosening his shoulders as he talked, Darcy drew one of the elaborate platters of cheeses closer, serving himself more than he had in the previous courses.

"Skilfully produced goods are often expensive goods, do you not worry about security when transporting them overland? With threats coming from either genuine brigands or disguised competition wanting to undercut you?" said the Colonel, moving from passive observer to participant.

"There are no guarantees when you move goods over water either. River barges are just as susceptible to illegal mischief, and in the ocean even the best ship can be sunk by nature's or man's fury." Lord Matlock confidently entered the conversation.

Lifting her chin in the air, Lady Carbeck huffed, "When have our duties toward the land ever entailed setting up dirty workshops?"

"The relationship between lords and serfs, land owners and tenants, has been evolving since its inception," declared Lady Matlock harshly before anyone else could gather the wit to interject.

"I agree," seconded Lord Matlock.

"Change is coming, or rather it is already here. There will come a time when our land will not be enough to sustain us. Pretending otherwise has the potential to render our class extinct," was Darcy's rather ominous reply.

All of those seated at the table seemed to think over Darcy's words with an uncharacteristic solemnity, except Lady Carbeck who narrowed her eyes. "And changing won't?"

"Pardon?" Darcy said, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had no doubt they were all thinking along similar lines.

"Will not radical change, like you suggest, make our class extinct as well?" Lady Carbeck visibly bristled. Richard thought it would behove his cousin not to forget that the Lady was nearly as elitist as she was mercenary. He caught his elder brother's expression and winced even before the Viscount began talking.

"I'm sure you would not care if your jewellery was paid for out of rents of business profits so long as it was sufficiently extravagant," he said with a feral smile, adding under his breath but loudly enough to be heard by all, "And suitably vulgar."

The Colonel's sister-in-law spluttered and turned red in the face. After snaring her matrimonial quarry, _Lady Cynthia's_ trademark maidenly blushes were no more, but _Lady Carbeck_ could certainly infuse some colour into her porcelain complexion if her temper were inflamed. A quick glance at his mother, quietly attending to the food on her plate, indicated her apparent disinterest in extinguishing the rapidly heating situation. As for the presiding hostess of the evening, she was watching the bubbling volcano with a politely curious expression, but the twinkle in her eyes suggested she was more amused than distressed by the turn the discourse had taken.

"I believe that if we continue to hold the best interests of our people at heart, no, our class and status will not be diminished," Darcy clarified.

The Colonel watched a sly smile overspread Mrs. Darcy's features and unaccountably felt his stomach drop.

"So people who are engaged in trade today are beneath you, and yet should you dabble in the same activities a year or five years from now, it does not diminish your status? I consider the point Lady Carbeck made to be valid: by current societal rules you could be leaving behind your class. And should they all adopt such diversification agendas, the class distinction is indeed threatened."

"You care to preserve _our_ status so much?" said Darcy, his inflection scathing.

"Not particularly, no, but I abhor hypocrisy. If you actively engage in trade to make a profit, you are in trade, ergo not a true gentleman," Mrs. Darcy replied, her eyes deadlocked with those of her husband.

"But what if I do it for a higher purpose, for the betterment of the people in my community?"

"Do you suppose all tradesmen to be heartless money grubbing mercenaries? I know at least half a dozen who have altruistic goals or give generously to charity and I am sure there are more. It is also not unreasonable to surmise that most of them gather wealth for the purpose of supplying their children with a better life. Is that not a higher goal, the love of one's family? You associate with Mr. Bingley, a young man on the cusp of becoming a landed gentleman from just such an endeavour."

Darcy was gnashing his teeth… never a good sign, the Colonel knew.

"You seem to know a lot about how those in _trade_ live, Mrs. Darcy. Pray do remind me, what was your maiden name again?" drawled Lady Carbeck.

'Well, according to my dear husband, they are the future." An arch smile accompanied Mrs. Darcy's statement, directed first at Lady Carbeck but lingering on Darcy.

To Colonel Fitzwilliam it seemed the crisis was averted till Lord Carbeck quickly spoke. "Come now, things were just getting interesting. Darcy do you truly think you can dabble in such things without having your judgement polluted?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam could recognise the blatant attempt to keep the argument going easily, for it did want for finesse. Yet Darcy, ever the hot headed fool, rose to the bait.

"If you had seen the revolting conditions these men, women and children work, presided over by foremen who are worse than beasts, all so that they can take home a wage of barely enough to fill their bellies, you would not speak so dismissively. If you had even a tenth of an idea of the suffering afoot you would not be so cavalier about my humble efforts."

Before the situation could escalate any further, Colonel Fitzwilliam quickly spoke over the beginning of his brother's no doubt incendiary retort. "Perhaps a compromise? If you give the profits to charity, Darcy, surely that would allow you to retain your current status, and publicly gifting said donations can bring attention to your project." Surprisingly for a man of war, he found himself quite deft at the art of peacekeeping, within his family at least. Mrs. Darcy appeared willing enough to give up the fight, if her wan smile was anything to go by.

"I will gladly give the proceeds to charity, or invest them into improving the infrastructure of the community, but I still assert my intention to diversify my holdings in the future. As a landed gentleman from a long line of landed gentry, I do not concede that making prudent financial decisions to meet a changing marketplace demeans me in any way." Darcy delivered his little speech calmly but the steel in his voice communicated his implacable determination on the issue.

"Just as I assert that to claim an association with those who currently earn their bread through trade does not demean me… Ladies, may I invite you to take some tea with me in the music room?" said Mrs. Darcy, her voice as sweet as spun sugar.

"Tea would be just the thing," replied Lord Carbeck to the invitation that had not been extended to him. He stood up and slapped his thighs before adding, "Mrs. Darcy, you will have to tell me all about your great friends in trade."

"Oh but Sir, I am no name dropper. You must learn to like or loathe me completely on my own merits."

Lord Carbeck threaded Mrs. Darcy's slim arm through his own. "Who could dislike a sweet little thing like you?"

"You'd be surprised." This was the last the Colonel heard as the linked pair and the rest of the ladies exited the room.

As Darcy made himself busy procuring drinks, Lord Matlock spoke up gruffly, "I think I better keep an eye on Lady Carbeck. She has been… difficult. I also must apologise for the behaviour of my son…"

But Darcy waved him off, and gracelessly tipped the drink he had prepared for his uncle into his own already generously filled roemer glass. Darcy also dismissed the waiting footmen, saying they could return to clean up later.

Colonel Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at his single of brandy.

"When you are married you can have triples, but until then, my need for strong liquor far eclipses yours," Darcy mumbled, moving along to sit opposite.

"Trouble in paradise already?" asked the Colonel in a light-hearted tone he did not feel.

"Sorry."

"I said, 'trouble in–"

"I heard you… I am sorry I didn't write," said Darcy, hanging his head and refusing to meet his eyes. "I tried to, I wanted to, but as the time neared I found I couldn't lie."

Seeing the shattered man before him twisted something deep in Colonel Fitzwilliam's chest, he strode around the table to haul his curiously boneless cousin to his feet and conveyed him to the study.

Darcy's rump had not even settled into the seat cushion before he began to expel the poison in a disjointed collection of words. The Colonel's earlier observations had aroused his suspicions, but nothing could have prepared him for the flood of his cousin's disclosures…

"All my care over the years, and snap goes the dragon," Darcy said bitterly. "Richard, it was so well planned! I had just ducked outdoors to escape Bingley's sister. Weeks in the house with that barnacle of a woman and I needed to get away from that ballroom in the same way I needed my next breath. I thought that no-one had seen me. I am still not sure how they did, but when I returned from my solitary walk in the windy dark gardens…. I can scarcely comprehend it… I had just reached for the handles of the French doors to return to the warmth and the ball. A little figure barrelled into me with incredible force. We went down in a tangle of fabric and limbs.

"Just through the doors, undoubtedly by design, were the chit's mother and aunt. The west parlour that I anticipated to be deserted, instead contained two of the worst gossips in the neighbourhood! But it gets better, oh curse me, it gets better." Darcy snickered as he shook his head. "I had landed upon the mystery girl, and in my haste to disentangle myself my cuff got caught in the sheer fabric of her bodice, and as I pulled away the damned thing tore right down the middle. Panicking beyond the use of reason, I grabbed the sections of her dress and tried to hold them together to prevent her bosoms from falling out. Then the vulgar mother starts wailing like I was murdering the girl. In rolls the cavalry: the local ranking gentleman, his gossiping wife and a various assortment of ladies and gentlemen tittering and hissing, though not a single one of them offered us any help. Then the girl chooses that moment to moan loudly. The sea of faces turn utterly aghast, because not only are both my hands clutching her breasts, but I'm settled lewdly between her legs."

Handing over his barely touched drink, the Colonel watched his beloved cousin knock it back in one swallow. Almost dropping the empty glass down onto the small table between them, before he continued his tale, in his eerie trance like state.

"They all start squawking, and I look down at her legs. In the position we're in, her skirts had ridden up, nearly to her knees. In that moment, with blinding clarity, I knew that I was done for."

Darcy then went eerily silent, one hand resting limply on his knee while the other rubbed circles on his chest as if he were suffering heartburn. The Colonel went and silently poured his cousin another drink, then shrugged. Tucking the half full bottle under his arm, he also snagged a second glass before shuffling back to the armchairs arrayed before the fire.

The Colonel nudged Darcy's foot with his own, leaving a scuff mark on the Spanish leather of his cousin's perfectly polished house pumps, earning a scowl but also his attention.

"I can see that it got beyond the point where you could plausibly claim an innocent accident, but I am surprised you followed it through to matrimony. If you thought the girl was a scheming mercenary, why not just let her stew in her own ruination? Your reputation could have taken the strain, even if word had spread to London. Things would have been back to business as usual next year or by the end of the season, even."

"She has four unmarried sisters, no brothers and a father who has made no provision for their futures. I will admit I considered leaving the whole damn lot of them to their fate, but I could not risk Georgiana."

"Georgiana?... What does this have to do with her?"

Darcy jerked and shifted in his seat, regarding his cousin with increasingly bleary eyes. "You cannot be that obtuse. Yes, my reputation might survive a little slap and tickle, but once it gets around that I spent my winter fondling country gentlewomen, you know the vultures would start digging. What if they track my movements back to Ramsgate? Or, heaven forbid, interview the staff there?

"I was taken in, but I did not fight the harness for the very best of reasons. I convinced the family to write it off as a passionate courtship gone too far. Naturally the mother was thrilled to lie, bald faced, to all her neighbours about me meeting Miss Elizabeth Bennet while she was in London, where we began courting, and that the little wench came running home to Hertfordshire to bring me up to scratch. I have never been more grateful for the general stupidity of the populace around Meryton. The fickle fools ate it up like Christmas goose."

Darcy sighed heavily, all the weariness of his situation expressed in a single exhalation. Colonel Fitzwilliam reached across the gap between chairs, nearly falling out of his own seat, to squeeze his cousin's arm in sympathy.

The Colonel spoke very slowly and carefully. "Having met the new Mrs. Darcy, she does not strike me as the cutthroat type. Are you sure it was not just an unfortunate accident?"

Without warning Darcy shook off his hand and violently hurled his glass into the fire. "Is this where you try to convince me that she is a paragon of virtue? That things have turned out for the best? Spare me your useless platitudes, Richard. At least with you let me drop the bedevilled disguise and tell you truly how much I despise my situation." Darcy snatched the nearly empty glass from the Colonel's hands and filled it nearly to the brim with the nearby bottle before settling back into his seat.

"Then what are you going to do? Romp around London like my esteemed brother? Throw away your family fortune at the gambling tables? Lock the girl in the country like a shameful dormouse because of a youthful mistake?" prompted the Colonel insistently.

"Do not presume to judge me," Darcy said darkly.

"She is comely enough, tempting even. Can you not find it in your heart to be grateful enough for that?"

A sharp hiss was emitted by Darcy and then the glass joined its brother in the flames, the thrown alcohol making them jump up and dance brightly. Darcy got to his feet and began pacing angrily.

"Tempting? Have you lost your mind? Even if she were as beautiful as Helen of Troy –which she is not— I would not throw over all my family and personal expectations for a pretty face. You know, she brings nothing to this match, a pathetic £50 a year during her father's life. The skinflints did not even provide her with wedding clothes! She comes from a family that is barely gentrified. Her mother's family is from trade, but more than that, the lot of them are utterly uncouth. And of the lady herself?... She is as cheeky as a street urchin and will make me the laughing stock of the Town. Comely, Ha!"

"And you, my cousin, are drunk. I suggest you retire to sleep it off. I will come and talk to you about this tomorrow when you are thinking more clearly," said the Colonel, in a calm and measured tone.

Darcy went to follow him to the door, but the colonel shook his head. "I'll make your excuses, blaming it on Lord Carbeck if I have to."

He stepped into the hallway to find Mrs. Darcy hastily backing away from the door. The Colonel quickly pulled the door shut before advancing toward the girl. For a brief moment she looked as though she would pick up her skirts and run, but she squared her petite shoulders and lifted her chin to him. Even in the dim light of the hallway he could see the tears shimmering in her large dark eyes.

"Georgiana was fading fast, so I wanted to ask if it would be permissible for her to retire before the company left, I know it is de rigueur, generally, but she is not even out yet… I just wanted to…" The girl was babbling. He wondered how much she had heard, certainly enough by the looks of things: she was trembling all over. He knew Darcy felt things keenly, but he could be such an arse!

She stumbled back when he took a step closer. "I must apologise…. For my brother's behaviour, for my cousin's as…"

She laughed unconvincingly, one perfect tear spilling forth and making a track down her cheek. "Whatever for? Isn't a good family quarrel as regular a Christmas tradition as pudding and presents? Or maybe that is only in the common uncouth families; the aristocracy must have higher standards."

If the tears were still flowing he would have offered her a handkerchief, but her tone had turned brittle, and he suspected that any further discussion at this junction would be futile. Still he could not help himself. "He is hurting, and did not mean it, I am sure. Give him time, Cousin. He can be a little rough around the edges, but he is a good man. The very best."

"Let me show you the way back to the music room Colonel, I believe Lady Carbeck said she would grace us with a song tonight," She said, cheerfully disregarding his comment. He allowed her retreat to formality and did not mention that he was no doubt more familiar with the passages of the house than she was herself.

Returning to the company, Colonel Fitzwilliam told Georgiana that Darcy had said it was fine for her to retire early. Lady Carbeck's warbling aria was received with more polite applause than it deserved, and Mrs. Darcy fended off Lord Carbeck's increasingly outrageous flirtation with a poise and grace beyond her years. Yet her eyes looked glassy.

Colonel Fitzwilliam once again considered the façade of Darcy house while the rest of his family members bundled their forms, bulky with winter outer wear, into the generous Matlock carriage. He would not have thought it possible but upon departure he felt even more melancholy than he had when he arrived.


	9. Vinegar and One Raw Egg

**A/N: So chaos abounds at my house, what else is new? This chapter of course!**

 **Mad props to my tireless and wonderful Beta Lenniee and some for my chat chicks L & K who also ran their discerning eyes over my draft in an effort to make it more polished for you. **

**As always: Jane Austen rocks and this will never be as amazing as the original, nevertheless, this story, all chapters and author notes are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. I do not grant permission for this work to be copied, reprinted/republished in full or any parts. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned.**

 **Enough of my blather and on to the good stuff, new chapter ahoy.**

Chapter 8

The lemon coloured slices of sunshine falling across his bed, and most importantly his eyes, made Darcy's head hurt. He groaned theatrically, flopping onto his belly… His naked belly?

Blinking gummy eyes, Darcy tried to remember the night before. The hammersmiths at work in his skull strongly indicated that drinking –and a lot of it – had featured heavily in his recent history. How much had he consumed last night?

He remembered dainty little hands nicely curled around a green tinted roemel glass, fingers rippling and shifting to avoid contact with his own as she handed it to him. Shaking off the extraneous recollection, for a mere pre-dinner drink was certainly not to blame for his present state, he tried to focus.

A glass of wine, perhaps two, with dinner. Again within normal bounds, nothing to cause intoxication. Wincing, he remembered the rapid rate at which Richard had plied him with spirits as he told the sordid tale of his engagement by ambush. He groaned again. His cousin kept military hours. If he was not already downstairs, he very soon would be.

But once again, Darcy was no gauche school boy; certainly no Reginald Hurst either, but he could still boast of being able hold his liquor with the best of them. The drinks he had consumed with the brother of his heart could have carried him half the way to this hammering misery, but not pay the full fare.

A hazy semi-formed impression tickled the edge of his consciousness, but every time he tried to catch it, it swished away like a school of little fish, evasive in the shallows.

Massaging his temples, he willed his throbbing head to desist in its adamant complaints and concentrate. Remember. Remember. Remember! And surprisingly he did… just in little flashes though: peaty whisky… more confessions, grossly candid… a pair of robin's egg blue pumps with a clover shaped gold buckle, and a man's ring of dulled ancient gold with a tiger's eye in the middle belonging to...

"James!" he hissed, wondering how much he had said in his corned state and what Lord Carbeck might do with the information.

"Dreaming of me cousin?... How singular!"

Darcy's head shot up. A terribly painful manoeuvre for one in his present condition. "Ohaaaggghhh!" he cried plaintively, slumping back over the edge of his bed, his left arm hanging limply off the side.

Lord Carbeck gave a merry laugh that seared like nails being driven into Darcy's scalp. "Will you shut up, man!" he groused.

Two feet clad in deep brown hessians, the left one swinging aloft from crossed legs, was all he could see of his facetious cousin who continued chuckling, albeit more quietly.

The boots moved. The soft sound of their progress on the carpet was not as offensive to his senses, but the drink his cousin shoved under his nose certainly was.

"Ye Gods, what is that? It reeks!"

"A cure, dear cousin. A very effective cure – for what ails you."

This time Darcy was much more careful in getting up. Lifting his head slowly he was thus able to minimise the spinning, if not eradicate it. He rolled sluggishly to his side and propped himself up on one elbow to accept the foulsome brew.

With one hand Darcy lifted the generous glass to his lips, but Lord Carbeck did not entirely let go either. When Darcy's mouth opened, he saw his cousin lift the bottom end sharply, sliding the entire concoction in.

As soon as it hit Darcy's tongue and taste buds, his mouth, nay his whole body rebelled. It tasted the way cut grass smelt, fresh but acerbic, an unpleasant metallic tang warring with heavy spices. There was a sour undernote also, and another that hinted at spoiled food floating in a viscous texture. All he wanted to do was eject the maelstrom of foulness.

Presumably sensing the imminent reaction, or from prior experience, Lord Carbeck clapped his hand firmly over Darcy's mouth and dropped the near empty glass harmlessly onto the bed, using the recently liberated hand to firmly pinch Darcy's nostrils together. Bucking and arching, Darcy was forced to swallow. As soon as the remedy was down his throat, his cousin released him, letting Darcy collapse back into the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Darcy opened his mouth to bellow at his rather officious cousin, hang the headache, but the man now held a glass of fruit juice that he had acquired from God knows where, and in place of his usual gloating countenance, James' soulful blue eyes and bunched brows communicated a mixture of sympathy and contrition.

After gratefully accepting the juice and swilling repeatedly, Darcy finally spoke, "Does one dare ask what was in it?"

"My best headache powders, spinach juice and ginger powder. Hair of the dog that bit you, of course. A dash of vinegar… And one raw egg."

Darcy winced. "Why a raw egg? Or the vinegar, for that matter?"

"While the other ingredients are medicinal, the vinegar and egg were instructional."

"Instructional?"

"I have high hopes that any time you consider drinking with those far more adept at the art than you, a memory of sour decay suspended in a slimy mess will give you pause. Teach you caution, if you will. You will never pull this charade off if you do not learn to exercise a little more caution and better acting skills."

"Charade?" Darcy had flopped onto his back. Loath as he was to admit it, the drink had already made him feel better. It may have just been the juice, hydration and such, but he could feel a spreading coolness on his brow, as if a very large, damp and chilled cloth had been laid upon his face and head. "How much do you know?" he finally asked.

"Everything," replied Lord Carbeck. "Including what you did _not_ tell me."

"I beg of you to keep it to yourself, it has the potential to cause a great scandal."

Lord Carbeck sat back down and looked at his cousin solemnly. "Because of Georgiana and Ramsgate?"

Darcy's eyes widened in utter shock. He had never imagined he would give up Georgiana's secrets, even under vile torture. What a poor excuse of a brother he was, meddling with drink rather than guarding the treasure.

Lord Carbeck shook his head, the movement vehement enough without disturbing his well styled golden hair. "I have known about that for months."

"Richard, then?"

"Not intentionally. The pair of you think you are _terribly_ clever, but you are just _terrible_ at covering your tracks. I went to Ramsgate, interviewed the servants… It took virtually no prompting for their chatter to turn indiscreet. Thus the staff at that house have been separated and scattered to the far ends of the kingdom. I told them some cock and bull story about a French noblewoman hiding from a licentious general, completely ridiculous, but exciting enough to eclipse the real tale. I also gave them full warning that my wrath would be satisfied by nothing short of blood if they dared open their mouths again. The foolish will repeat the more torrid tale and the wise will say nothing at all. By the way, I will be keeping the stallion I rode home last night, consider it payment for my timely intervention."

Darcy felt his stomach drop and his skin chill at the thought that the Ramsgate affair could have so easily been exposed. It was a strange counterpoint to the lightening in his tight headache and general easing of the drink-induced malaise. He snatched up a shirt that lay discarded at the end of the bed, pulling it over his head and settled it loosely on his torso.

"I fail to understand how you even knew enough to go to Ramsgate. Or further, why you have any interest in me and my marriage," said Darcy, his expression dark, though his lingering headache prevented him from executing a truly menacing furrowed brow.

"You know, Richard may like you, but I think you are an even bigger shit than you were when you were younger… For days I saw my brother walking around in a daze, like he had lost the most important person in his life. Since I had not come across _your_ obituary in the paper and my mother had seen neither hide nor hare of Georgiana in the weeks following her return to London, Ramsgate seemed the logical place to seek answers. I was not proven wrong…

"Now as for my interest in your marriage… That is a thornier branch of enquiry… I defy any man to honestly claim to have had a worse wedding night than I did. Even you Darcy. Even you…" His cousin's blithe attitude had been stripped. The pose was still affected but rang hollow. James' voice was tired, and as he sat there, determinedly staring at his tiger's eye ring, he looked all of his thirty six years.

"I followed every rule laid down by God and man, followed every stricture of my esteemed parents, because to do so would give me the perfect life, or so I believed. I am aware that my polite, compliant demeanor garnered me more affection than my brother's constant questioning of everything and his occasional defiance. Yet more proof that my approach was correct. Small joys, few sorrows, my life as a child and young adult was idyllic you could say, exactly as it should be.

"I did not even balk when the family pushed for me to come up to scratch with Lady Cynthia. There were other debutantes I liked better perhaps, but I was not enamoured of any of them. I never felt that Lady Cynthia had much interest in me, but she seemed quiet enough, docile, and I had been given a directive. I had no great compunction to fight the bit that had never steered me wrong before."

Darcy forestalled his intention to tell his cousin to quit his private rooms. He had long wondered what could have affected so great a change in James' personality. Even Richard had little clue how the undeniably terrible marriage could have wrought such an all-encompassing alteration in the young Lord's outward manners, thoughts and very nature.

Not daring to even move, Darcy sat silently, waiting for his cousin to continue.

"Following the rules. Always following the rules… I went to my wedding night very chaste. My wife did not."

Darcy was not entirely able to suppress a hiss of surprise. Lord Carbeck looked up with a grim smile, but his expression returned to a blank mask that spoke more eloquently of his pain than any grimace, as he picked up his story again.

"I never thought that Lady Cynthia was above my touch, even with her monstrously huge dowry and her connections with every old family worth cultivating. I should have known her parents would have desired more than the son of a mere third generation Earl, albeit a well behaved one. And the haste in which our nuptials were pursued should have caused alarm, but I was such a complacent little prick, I did not question what I determined were my earned dues.

"The evidence of her despoiled state was easily discerned… Without all the ruffles and other neatly sewn distractions her burgeoning belly was patently obvious," said his cousin in measured tones. James' jaw was discernibly clenched and a little vein throbbed, much like Darcy's own when he was struggling for control. Darcy continued in patient silence, taking shallow breaths, and was rewarded with another confidence ere long.

"The cad had seduced her promising marriage, but engaged himself to another society miss. A younger, prettier chit apparently. Thus Cynthia's parents wanted her married, and quickly. I was the dupe… though my bride treated me as if I had contrived her misery for my own amusement and also as a very pathetic creature beyond her notice or concern. My chaste state persisted through our wedding night and for many months after.

"So I may still have been –married but not quite a husband, a Lord but not truly a man –were it not for a very kind, discreet and persistent widow, whom I met not long before the one year anniversary of my marriage."

"I am very sorry," said Darcy.

"Do not waste your sympathy. Because of my wounded pride and my intense bafflement that everything had not gone my way, I was rather cruel to my wife. She was hurting, she was vulnerable and therefore lashing out at the only person within striking distance. I struck back in kind and cemented our enmity. I could have been a better and more temperate man. I humiliated her with my affairs as she humiliated me on our wedding night." His cousin fiddled with his ring.

"But what of young James and Andrew, are they…?" Darcy could not bring himself to fully articulate the question.

"Oh yes, they are mine. I learnt a great deal through my amorous pursuits. And we certainly know that my wife was a fool for seduction before, I made her my fool for a span of years, and it was almost too easy, though distasteful in the extreme… I watched her too, or rather had her watched… No, the little rascals are mine, I would bet my life on it." Lord Carbeck's voice was complacent but his fingers roughly massaging his other hand told a different story.

"And the other babe?"

"Fostered out. My wife has admirably taken a special interest in the 'distant Fitzwilliam orphan'. I would hazard a guess that most of the townsfolk think it is a by blow of mine, since the child is small for her age and speciously paint my wife the saint. Oh the irony!

"I allow her this concession, but I struggle with it. She is devoted to that whey-faced child but shows no interest in ours, none at all. The days leading up to the birth were the darkest of my life: all manner of thoughts and solutions were running through my mind, some more evil than others. I could not allow her misbegotten whelp to steal the birth rights of my children. I would like to claim that I am no monster, but as it was a daughter not a son, we shall never truly know. After what she put me through, if she died tomorrow, I don't think I would mourn her, and if I could strangle her scheming parents without bringing down the law on my head, I would."

"I am sorry," said Darcy, simply. Though unimaginative, the sentiment was sincere.

"Oh don't be! I have quite enjoyed dabbling in the hedonistic lifestyle. If I had remained as I was, I would have blundered through a life but half lived. I set my own rules now and determine my own choices, tempered only by the needs of those I truly care about. A handful of individuals at most."

The jovial and slightly irritating mask was back up, but it did not arouse the same ire in Darcy as it had the night previous, rather he felt like a lead weight had taken up residence in his stomach.

"Why would you share your history with me?"

His cousin seemed to mull over the question for an inordinate amount of time. "Perhaps because I made myself welcome to the secrets of your marriage… Fairly intimate secrets… Tut tut tut, three times in one night, you beast!" He winked. "I could also profess a desire to help you, but for all that you are blood, I find myself more concerned over the fate of the delectable Mrs. Darcy… But if I really think on it, I enjoy pointing out the hypocrisy of your stance in recent years. All but cutting me for my love interests when you yourself have been no saint and for far less cause than I."

His cousin paused, peeling back his lips in a feral smile that showed his eye teeth before adding, "And I never had to pay any of _my_ paramours."

Darcy felt a flush begin to wash over his features. His hand involuntarily curled into a fist, but he only said, "What type of help?"

That feral smile flashed again. His cousin no doubt knew the shot had hit its mark. "Firstly, the benefit of my experience and wisdom. These are the crucial days of your marriage. Set a pattern for cruelty now and you will never be able to crawl your way back into her good graces."

Ticking off one finger, his cousin held up a second, wiggling it at Darcy obnoxiously. "My second piece of advice: put aside your petulant rage and actually look at your wife. Without prejudice. She is a diamond of the first water, and if she had been born to our sphere you could never have secured her: she would have gone to a much greater man than either you or I."

Darcy stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. Lord Carbeck climbed languidly to his feet, walking towards the bed till he stood at the edge of the mattress. Darcy stared determinedly ahead.

"Third point. Until you can muster some genuine feeling for your spouse, you need to perfect your acting. Try to show some chivalry to your purported lady love, if you even know how," his cousin sneered before leaning forward to loom over Darcy, bracing himself with one arm on the headboard, forcing Darcy to look up into his glittering eyes.

"If you continue in this manner, clinging to the preposterous notion that your wife, a queen among women, is a mercenary, be prepared for the coming storm, Cousin. The rakes of our circle will go mad for her, and if you treat her badly enough, one of them just might succeed in conquering her. If you were not family, and were I not reformed, you can rest assured I would pursue her myself. I still might."

Darcy turned his head to the side, made angry by the scolding, the taunts and by the uncomfortable truths his cousin had forced into focus. "Are you quite finished?" he muttered.

In a mercurial shift, his cousin righted his posture and slapped his buckskin-clad thighs. "Not nearly. Since I have arisen so early to save you from _your_ folly, I think I shall enjoy a hearty breakfast at _your_ table, and if I make haste perhaps bask in the company of _your_ womenfolk."

As his tall and undeniably handsome cousin reached the door, he paused briefly, turning his head on a jaunty angle. "Don't be too long in coming down, you never know what mischief I may get up to!"

Darcy scowled at the closed door, but not for long: the light threat was still ringing in his ears. He rang for his man, who seemed a little more subdued than usual. As he should be, allowing his master to wake up to an intruder, family or not!

Darcy was not one to abuse his servants, but instead of his usual thank you or comments on his valet's well thought out choice in attire, he merely nodded at Hayes. The man scurried off like a whipped cur.

Darcy's arrival in the breakfast room was marked by six individuals. His sister's companion who sat beside her charge, politely acknowledged him and added "Merry Christmas" in a sedate tone, naturally triggering Darcy to return the sentiment and greeting. A similar exchange was made with Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated upon Georgiana's other side.

His sister was much more enthusiastic in greeting him, acting as though she had not seen him in twelve days rather than twelve hours. His normally valiant wife seemed disinclined to meet his eyes when she mumbled a flat "Good morning Husband, I hope you slept well."

As for Lord Carbeck, he shifted his seat a little closer to Mrs. Darcy, to lean in and speak close to her ear. Darcy was pleased to note that she shied away from the proximity, but nevertheless, his aristocratic cousin directed a cheeky smirk his way.

There was a palpable tension at the table. Darcy could sense it from the moment he took his own seat, and the source was no great mystery. Lord Carbeck was shamelessly flirting with Elizabeth, complimenting her dress, her complexion, her hairstyle, the breakfast spread, and, in a rather absurd turn, the shape of her teeth.

"The well of inspiration seems to be running dry, _Cousin_. Although I find your flirting diverting, you must try to spread it around. I could not ask you to flirt with your own brother, but perhaps Georgiana could benefit from your attentions. With her upcoming debut, she could use some practice in light flirtation and of course in heading off pernicious suitors." Elizabeth took a small bite of her muffin at the end of this speech, flicking her tongue to capture a stray smear of strawberry preserve on the corner of her lip. The move was irrefutably provocative, but appeared more unconscious than intentionally seductive.

Laughing at the barb, Lord Carbeck replied, "Practice? To become a flirt? Is it not a skill young ladies are born with?"

Georgiana had turned a bright red, and Darcy could see that Richard was clutching his mug of coffee rather tightly in embarrassment or anger, perhaps both.

"Go home, flirt with your own wife, and leave mine alone," said Darcy, feeling any lingering charity towards his cousin evaporating.

"Such an ungracious attitude, when I have been pouring my heartaches to you and giving you the benefit of my greater experience in the wedded state." His older cousin then turned to Mrs. Darcy. "He is an ungracious brute don't you think?" said His Lordship, looking pointedly at her and making no move to quit the table.

The girl did not look at Darcy, though she shared a brief glance with Georgiana and Richard. "Whatever he is, he is mine, and thus I shall not speak a word against him, no matter how you try to provoke me, My Lord."

At this, the gnat finally departed with a great deal of flourish, hovering over his wife's hand for a great deal longer than was necessary. He could even see in Richard's stiff posture that he was less than impressed with his brother's antics.

Even after Lord Carbeck's departure, the lingering memory of his vexing presence made the quiet of the remaining company appear stilted. After a span of minutes, Richard cleared his throat loudly. "If you ladies would excuse us… Cousin, I would like to take this opportunity to speak to you in private, if I may?"

Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, Darcy quit the table gracefully and led his uniformed cousin back to his study.

The interview that followed was short and predictable.

Everything about it was predictable, from the uninspired choice of his study, to the ponderous way Richard paced on the carpet and the commanding tone of his voice. His cousin admonished Darcy for his lack of consideration towards his wife, reminded him to control his temper and blithely questioned his judgement in proclaiming Mrs. Darcy a mercenary.

Darcy was still too distracted with the early morning revelations to assemble an anger appropriate to Richard's interference, though his irritation was piqued.

"Brother, do not let your temper carry you further down this road to unhappiness. In one evening I saw much to admire in your bride. I implore you to drop any prejudice this next week and simply observe her, before it becomes too late for you to woo her."

The imprecise but intimate family appellation did head off Darcy's growing annoyance. He raised himself from his chair, taking a step towards his cousin. Despite his rigorous military training, the Colonel flinched slightly, but Darcy did not lash out with words or fists. He took Richard's hand within his own, shaking it firmly.

"You have my word, I will think upon what you have said… Brother."

But as the day wore on, Darcy found himself frequently dwelling on Lord Carbeck's history, and thus he took his advice to heart.

In between the writing of some personal correspondence, he dropped in twice to see how his wife and sister were getting along. The first time the waters were calm, the smiles warm and everything perfect. After watching from the parlour door for a few minutes, he slipped away on silent feet.

His second foray into the music room was not as pleasant. Upon noticing his presence, his sister implored him with eyes full of tears to intervene. _Intervene in what?_ was his immediate thought. But Georgiana, with the confidence of a sympathetic audience, had started blubbering, and the coherence of her speech had suffered as a result. Darcy simply could not help himself, he cast an accusatory look upon his wife.

Rather than being intimidated, Elizabeth pursed her lips and patted his sister on the back rather sternly. Proceed with caution, or else, was the message conveyed by her expressive eyes.

It turned out that Georgiana was bitterly railing against a suggested change in the routine of her lessons. It transpired that she had eschewed her language instruction for the past two months in favour of spending more time at the piano. Darcy had been surprised by the oversight and even more surprised by his wife's commitment to remedying it, and perhaps a little angry.

Who was she to come into their lives and begin to order his sister's education according to her whims?

Yet there was no doubt she was in the right. Though it pained him to admit it, he agreed with Mrs. Darcy's strictures and sternly told Georgiana so. The look of unbridled surprise that graced his wife's little face was almost as great a reward as doing the right thing by his recently indulged sister. No, he confirmed, the language lessons would recommence, and if Mrs. Annesley was not satisfied with her progress in French and German by the end of January, her music lessons would be curtailed until she caught up.

Georgiana's tears were replaced briefly by a mutinous look before she slid back into a mope that would last the rest of the day.

As a nod to the season perhaps, Mrs. Darcy appeared at dinner in a dress of deep crimson and with a very deep neckline. Mrs. Annesley had gone to spend the night and dinner with her extended family in Richmond, so, with the still subdued Georgiana, there was little to distract him from his wife's fine assets. The familiar battle raged within Darcy's chest: she was so desirable, painfully so – as the strained state of his trousers affirmed –and yet everything he knew of her family, and his experience of women in general, cautioned him against surrendering to her allure.

The meal was simple: roast goose, vegetables two ways, and a game pie. It was more than enough for the three of them and cooked to perfection. He raised a brow at the simple fare, she replied with a shrug and said that she had lightened the meal to allow a portion of the staff an early evening to celebrate. It was the least she could do, she added.

Foregoing the second remove completely, the meal moved straight to the final course, also simplified with just a seasonal pudding and a selection of fruit. The lone cheese on offer was fortunately his favourite, but Darcy wondered if that was mere coincidence.

To his great disappointment, Georgiana persisted in her sulk throughout the meal. Darcy noted his wife's placid attempts to draw her out, but she did not pander to his sister's childish mood. As they quit the table, Georgiana sullenly enquired if she might retire early. A hearty assent was hovering on his lips, when a small hand descended on his arm, completely distracting him. His wife's honeysuckle scent washed over him, as did her words to Georgiana. "Certainly you may retire early, Sister, but come first to the music room. I have a small gift for you."

To Darcy's great surprise, his wife retrieved _two_ parcels from a table in the far corner of the room. He fingered his petite but neatly wrapped package with guilt; it had not even crossed his mind to get a present for his wife, small or otherwise.

Georgiana peeled back the paper on her rectangular package, and could not conceal a curl in her lip. Leaning over to determine what had disgusted her so, Darcy saw her scrutinising the title of the book in her hands. The book itself had clearly been well loved, as it bore the telltale marks of frequent use, yet it was the title, written in French, that offended. Georgiana gave a scathing look to her new sister, who laughed gaily.

"Oh, I suppose it is in poor taste, given our earlier disagreement, but Georgiana, it is the most wonderful story, full of intrigue, romance and great folly. Please take the gift in the spirit in which it was given. As my father used to say, all the best novels are in French."

Her voice was light, and the playful smile that curved her lips reflexively included him. Though the sparkle in her eyes dimmed somewhat when she noticed his fingers still curled around her unopened gift.

"I promise the contents will not bite. I doubt they will inspire either, but in any case, Merry Christmas… Husband."

Her blithe mood suffered further as she uttered the last word, and he was sorry for it. Darcy tugged the bow loose and slid the seam of the paper apart. His hand encountered soft fabric. He gently extracted four handkerchiefs, fingering the fine quality of the white linen. Looking at them more closely, he noticed they were not plain: in the corner of the topmost square, instead of an embroidered pattern of initials there were a few artfully placed lines that depicted a gentleman fishing. Turning over the corner to look at the next, he saw the fisherman repeated, every stroke the same, right down to the smallest detail. He touched the pattern with his finger: a slight stiffness, but it was not raised.

Mechanically he lifted the next, expecting the same pattern, but instead it depicted a gentleman asleep under a tree with his legs crossed out in front of him and his hat pulled down over his eyes. Once again it was truly astounding how much had been conveyed and with so much character, in just a few thin lines.

"I have never seen the like," he said, lifting his eyes from the pattern to capture her own.

She licked her lips, shifting slightly on her spot at the far end of the sofa, before speaking cautiously, "I made them… with my seamstress' help of course. Her grandfather uses this very interesting woodblock technique… I drew the lines but my hands were not up to cutting the…Well they are not much..."

"Thank you," he said gruffly, more than a little shamed by her generosity.

To give her a gift or not? He had never even considered the possibility of sourcing a holiday gift for his wife.

The Fitzwilliams barely noted the customs of the season. He and Georgiana had given up the practice of exchanging gifts at Christmas years ago. Not that he did not treat Georgiana, and frequently, but aside from birthday gifts, they did not limit their exchanges to holidays or special occasions.

And would not a gift from him, given the strained state of their marriage, appear disingenuous? Or worse, as if he were playing into Mrs. Darcy's hands?

He had a horde of family jewellery in the safe in his study, he debated whether he ought to choose a piece and bring it to her rooms this evening.

Darcy reminded himself of both of his cousins' assurances that the girl was not mercenary and his promise to view her objectively from this point onwards.

Georgiana quietly made her goodnights, leaving him alone with his wife and his thoughts. Lustful, but wary thoughts.

It was near impossible to be objective. That dress, it truly looked very becoming on her. Clearing his throat, Darcy tried to calm his mind.

"It has been many years since Georgiana and I put much effort into celebrating the season. With just the two of us, stirring up sufficient holiday spirit often seemed beyond our capabilities. If I were perfectly honest, I would say that our naturally reticent personalities also shoulder a share of the blame. This must be quite sombre compared to your typical Christmas." His speech was halting, and he was not sure it conveyed what he wished, he was not even sure what he wished to express.

A rueful smile lifted her mouth, then she dropped her gaze to the hands she was wringing in her lap. "I do not think there is a common thread in my experiences, except perhaps the Christmas service. We missed that today."

"I thought a trip to church would have put us under a great deal of unwanted scrutiny, I should have been more sensitive to your wishes." Darcy got up from his own seat to take up a position next to her on the sofa.

He became aware of how her body seemed to incline just slightly away from him. Upon seeming to realise she was inadvertently revealing her discomfort, her posture became erect, her shoulders expanded. But the torture set off by her little show of bravery! Did she know that such a posture caused her bosom to protrude in a rather alluring way? No, that was his suspicion talking. He had agreed to mute these thoughts and observe her without preconceptions.

"Is there anything within my power that could make the night more pleasant for you? I feel it incumbent upon me to remedy this oversight." His voice was hoarse.

There was a long pause before she could answer. Even the time it took to simply draw her eyes from her hands seemed endless. "I would like to retire early."

A wide grin spread across his face, the expression was very nearly a leer.

"Alone," she added, the words washing over him like a bucket of ice cold water. "With the preparations for last night's affair and then the debacle of the dinner itself and—"

Her stumbling speech made his ardour falter further. Darcy wrapped a large warm hand around her own, trying to calm her, but the contact only seemed to send tiny tremors up her arm until her whole body was vibrating with some strong emotion. He could not readily decide what would bother him more, if she was quaking with anger or apprehension? Neither did him credit.

"I do not wish to quarrel," she added.

Much like their wedding night, he was again struck with how young she was. He knew that outward appearances could be deceiving, but with the remonstrations of the morning, he wondered if she were just as she appeared to be: a young woman swept up in a situation beyond her experience or capabilities.

She had opened to him, once, but perhaps it was never to be repeated. The thought set off an ache in more than just his loins.

"Have I ever struck you? Ever forced you? Or in any way given you reason to fear physical violence?" His tone was gentle and his words intended to soothe, but had the opposite effect.

"You accord me no respect as an individual and have shown a blatant disregard for my feelings on more than one occasion. You must forgive me if trust is a scarce commodity," she hissed. The volume of her voice was well modulated, but the tone scathing. "You have complete legal dominion over me. Without even a thread of affection I live on a foundation of sand, any comfort apt to crumble beneath me on a mere whim of my husband's, and you have shown yourself to be a slave to your whims."

"You were not my choice in a bride!" he snapped back, still reeling from the rather sharp turn their discourse had taken.

"So I am destined to be punished with your contempt for the rest of my life?" she scoffed, clearly unrepentant. "Or once I have performed my office of brood mare, will you ship me off to the country to moulder away out of your sight? You must forgive me if on this night I wish to assert my existence as an individual of sensibilities, if not independence. Come to my room if you must, it is within your rights, but do not delude yourself into believing I am willing or that you are welcome."

Darcy's eyes widened at the offensive picture she painted of his character. Why would she goad him so? What could she hope to gain? Was she merely out of her senses? Alternatively, perish the thought, was he truly the unpardonable cad that both his cousins, and now his wife accused him of being?

"So this is your opinion of me?" He had not intended to speak the words, and the pathetic plaintive tone in which they were uttered was certainly not deliberate.

Elizabeth pursed her lips and crossed her arms, but her voice when she spoke was noticeably milder. "My opinion of you is not yet formed. I know so little of you, you have been everything but forthcoming. Perhaps my vanity has been pricked by your complete disregard for me as your spouse, your capricious performance on our wedding night or your cold disdain thereafter and ongoing for all the days of our union so far."

"Then what is it that you desire, Elizabeth?" he asked.

That she was taken aback by the question, and likely the intimate use of her name, was easily apparent. He watched her facial features morph from irritation to stunned surprise, and then the subtle signals of anxiety. Her teeth fastened onto the corner of her bottom lip, her brows drew marginally closer together, but most obvious was the glassy quality of her eyes.

"Everything has changed so quickly and so extensively, I could barely tell you," said his wife.

Choosing his words carefully, lest an inappropriate phrase raise her ire again, Darcy ventured to say, "I have not behaved in a manner I am proud of. I anticipated a very different sort of marriage… wait! Please let me finish," he urged at the sight of her posture stiffening again. "I will take your reproaches under consideration," he added.

When she did not attempt to interject, he continued, looking steadily at her, even though his inclination was to shy away from her searing gaze and his failings in the past week. "I propose a truce… I shall attempt to be more considerate and more forthcoming. Could you agree to the same?"

She searched his face for what may have been just a few seconds, but felt interminable to him, her dark eyes tracing over his expression, reaching into his own eyes to draw out his meaning and motives. When her ebony orbs narrowed, he anticipated a curt and negative response, but instead her head bobbed slightly.

His wife reached her soft, feminine hand as if to shake, but changed her mind before he could return the gesture. She jumped to her feet swiftly.

"I agree," she confirmed verbally, giving a shallow dip of a curtsey, then she was through the door in the dramatic style she often adopted after a peak of marital disharmony.

Her approach sparked a small flicker of curiosity in Darcy. Had she become proficient at making an escape by living in the perpetually chaotic atmosphere at Longbourn?

She had not been at Longbourn when his party had arrived in the neighbourhood. Was her absence a routine visit with her London relatives? It did not explain the uncharacteristic reticence of the generally loquacious Bennet family, though; was she in some sort of disgrace? He also wondered at her language skills: she spoke French, but how well?

Darcy took longer to make his way up to bed, and longer again to find sleep. His wife was much more complex than he had allowed upon their marriage, a true conundrum.

 **So what did you think? All reviews are cherished, I feed on them on the nights I can't be bothered to stop writing and get myself a snack. Please comment.**


	10. Yes, An Egyptian Library

**A/N: I cannot even explain how tough the last few weeks have been for me. My children love to tag team when it comes to sleep. My youngest frequently keeps me up until 1am or later with his fussing, only for my four year old to wake me up at 6:30am. Their fighting would try the patience of a saint, but as a very sleep deprived Mum, I feel like I am fresh out of patience. Has anyone got some they could spare?**

 **My beta has patience in spades! Thank you for tidying up my rather sloppy prose Lenniee (and for the language tips). And a special thanks to Sky Dreamer for helping me work through some of the thornier issues in this chapter and K for making sure there were no lurking historical disasters.**

 **I hate to, but I have to remind everyone that I reserve the copyrights to this story: it is not to be copied, re-transmitted or published in any way shape or form, either in full or in part.**

 **I was so delighted with last week's reviews! Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts with me and to those who sent me PMs also.**

Chapter 9

 _Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves._

How many times had Mrs. Hill expressed the same sentiment to Elizabeth? On a dozen occasions? A hundred? A thousand times? ...

Perhaps that was exaggerating, but Elizabeth had often been treated to the proverb when she arrived in the kitchens crying over an overheard cruelty, invariably uttered by her mother.

As a very young child, she had longed for Mrs. Hill to be outraged, and challenge Mrs. Bennet on her behalf. As she grew out of her sweet naivety, she had understood the servant could never be her champion, but she still appreciated having a sympathetic mother figure. Later, as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, Cook and Mrs. Hill had allowed her to pound her frustrations into the bread dough.

Elizabeth had not meant to overhear last night. As far as she was concerned, her husband's thoughts were his own. She wanted little to do with them, just as she wanted as little as practicable to do with the man himself.

" _Then what are you going to do? Romp around London like my esteemed brother? Throw away your family fortune at the gambling tables? Lock the girl in the country like a shameful dormouse because of a youthful mistake?" The Colonel asked._

 _She would have walked away, but that last phrase caught her, like a hook catches a fish. He undoubtedly could do such a thing, once he got the issue he required off her, but would he?_

" _Do not presume to judge me," the unmistakable voice of her husband replied._

" _She is comely enough, tempting even. Can you not find it in your heart to be grateful enough for that?"_

 _Elizabeth barely blushed at the compliment. Why was the foolish Colonel goading her husband? She jumped when she heard what sounded like glass, thrown forcefully._

 _She went to retreat when she heard loud feet making their way around the room, but no-one actually come to the door, thus she leaned in more closely, and listened intently._

" _Tempting? Have you lost your mind? Even if she were as beautiful as Helen of Troy –which she is not— I would not throw over all my family and personal expectations for a pretty face. You know, she brings nothing to this match, a pathetic £50 a year during her father's life." Her husband's harsh words were dripping with mockery and disdain._

" _The skinflints did not even provide her with wedding clothes! She comes from a family that is barely gentrified. Her mother's family is from trade, but more than that, the lot of them are utterly uncouth. And of the lady herself?... She is as cheeky as a street urchin and will make me the laughing stock of the Town. Comely, Ha!"_

 _Elizabeth curled her fists tightly enough to leave small red crescents on her palm, but the only sting she felt was that of humiliation and anger. She heard the colonel speak but did not register the words, and then he was suddenly in front of her. Too late to effect an escape._

 _Utterly mortified at being discovered, she began babbling, a seething combination of shame, anger and embarrassment making her shiver and tremble._

 _When he started_ _apologising_ _she felt a traitorous tear slip down her cheek. She easily shrugged away the Colonel's comment to the effect that Darcy was the best of men: she could be hardly accused of prejudice for thinking that a man who had treated her meanly throughout their marriage was, in fact, mean. She equally brushed aside his concern along with his empty assurances and adopted a mask of good-natured serenity._

Elizabeth could not be entirely sure that her forced cheer, projected until the guests departed, had convinced all. Certainly the Colonel had given her more than a handful of sympathetic glances, and for all his excessive and irritating gallantry, she had noted that Lord Carbeck's eyes had been soft as she had bid the family goodnight.

The Viscount had even asked her permission to say a quick goodnight to her husband, a gesture of kindness and respect, considering he hardly needed her approval. She had only nodded, unable to trust her voice or her composure to hold much longer. She knew not what time he left or how he had made his way home.

In a normal household she may have allowed the façade of calm to crack upon reaching her rooms, not so at Darcy house. Who could imagine Mrs. White in the role of the motherly lady's maid, patting her quietly disheartened mistress on the back, and ordering her a soothing hot chocolate? Pigs would sooner fly!

Instead, she had roughly brushed out Elizabeth's hair, all the time muttering over her disobedient wild curls, as if she were the one having her scalp tugged painfully.

By the time Elizabeth had finally gained the luxury of privacy and the opportunity for a good cry, no tears had come. The humiliation stung, but the anger burned too hot for tears.

Upon waking, Elizabeth had wondered how she would face her husband with equanimity that morning.

She attempted to catalogue every wrong she could have suffered as a wife. He did not beat her – _yet_ – a small insidious voice whispered in her mind. He had not exiled her to the country – _yet_ – echoed the voice again. He had not forced intimacy, and she really did think he never would. The voice inserted the caveat that he would not, so long as she continued to cooperate in his goal to father an heir. It could have been worse, and it could yet be worse, if she did not tread carefully.

After going through the mental torture of her morning toilette with Mrs. White, Elizabeth was in the breakfast room, bracing herself for the coming encounter with her husband.

She ate sparingly but quickly, while unobserved. This may have been a critical error, as she felt her stomach threaten to mutiny almost immediately. It seemed determined to eject her half muffin smeared with honey and the lone buttered egg she had consumed, when footsteps were heard in the hall. But to her astonishment, if not relief, the gentleman who joined her was not her out-of-favour husband, but his eldest cousin.

"Merry Christmas, Cousin," she offered politely. "What a surprise to see you, so early… Please join me." She gestured to a seat opposite her, across the table. But with a predacious grin, Lord Carbeck ignored her prompt –and the other dozen or so empty place settings– to take the chair immediately to her right. He wriggled in a mildly indecent manner, settling himself on his chosen chair.

"The usual expression is: what a _'pleasant'_ surprise. Your omission wounds me, my beauty," he said, picking up her hand for a kiss. She tried to pull it back but his grip was firm. He steered the hand closer, pressing her now splayed fingers against his chest. The move transgressed the bounds of gallantry and made her blush. What did he mean behaving in such a way in front of her husband's servants?

"You are doing it a bit brown, Sir," she drawled, trying to discourage his forward conduct. She felt his deep chuckle vibrate through her palm.

Finally he released her captive limb. "Perhaps," he replied.

At that moment Simmons slipped into the room, confidently gesturing the silent attending footman to follow him. Elizabeth watched the two converse in whispers just outside the open door, not concerned or even overly curious. She trusted the very capable butler implicitly.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Lord Carbeck again made for her hand, attempting to place his own over hers. Catching the movement on the periphery she neatly avoided his intent. "I think you ought to keep your hands to yourself," she said briskly.

"A mere familial gesture of comfort, but if you choose to be missish—" He left the comment hanging, and yet Elizabeth did not repent her protest. In a mercurial shift, his eyes turned soft again, much like they had the evening prior. "I suspect you had a poor time of it last night: the strain of meeting the family, presenting a united front with your spouse when you are anything but —"

"I would beg you not to speculate about the state of my marriage. It is nothing to you," she said, cutting him off and hopefully severing the thread of his thoughts.

Elizabeth did not enjoy such luck. With the ominous declaration of offering his _assistance_ , the Viscount began waxing eloquent on the theme of Darcy's inner worth. He claimed that although Darcy had the manners of a boor and the temper of a bear, he was still a good and honest man, a man who could surprise her if she would but let him. He even ventured, with a frown, that he had long suspected all that was wanted to make Darcy's manners more generally pleasing was the love of a good woman.

Elizabeth's temples began to throb. She'd had quite enough of being told to cherish her churlish husband. "Both you and your brother appear to be reading from the same script, but I contend that Mr. Darcy has never even heard of the play," she quipped raising a brow, but she made her tone sharp without being shrill.

A lazy grin overtook his features. Not the reaction she had anticipated. " _Au contraire, chérie_ ," he said playfully. "Darcy knows all the plays. Never fear, he will play the misunderstood hero, then the dashing lover –not as dashing is myself, I own, but who is?–but he never deigns to play the villain: he considers such roles, such vices, beneath him. If you appeal to his sense of justice he will generally relent, once his temper cools; that is my advice to you."

"Mr. Darcy is naught but a man, although a very rich one. The stage deals in extremes: virtuous maidens, shining heroes, black-hearted villains. The righteous live happily ever after, the evil meet a painful end. I think that ordinary individuals strive for contentment, but many merely end up unsatisfied and unhappy in the manner of the mundane."

Elizabeth observed his nostrils flare, and then his face go still except for the occasional twitch of his mouth and jaw, as if he were sampling the flavour of her sentiments. How he felt about them in the end she could hardly tell, because in another dizzying shift he was again all seductive smiles and extravagant chivalry.

He begged her to serve him with some food. For any food that came from her hands must taste like the food of the gods, likely to make him veritably weep with pleasure –or so he professed.

Caught off guard, Elizabeth had meant to scoff, but his novel request, absurd speech and eager expression were just so ridiculous she giggled instead. Clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes caught movement in the doorway and there stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, with his eyes narrowed, looking first to his brother then at herself, seated alone in the breakfast room, albeit with the door wide open.

"Good morning, Sir, and a Merry Christmas to you. Have you eaten? You must join us." Elizabeth was pleased that her hostess' training filled the awkward pause, and to her even greater relief, Georgiana chose that moment to appear with Mrs. Annesley, her companion, whom Elizabeth had met briefly the night before. Mrs. Annesley, the Colonel and her new sister took seats all in a row, on the opposite side of the table.

The Colonel, with generous thanks, tucked into the meal, piling his plate with a combination of foods running the gamut from savoury to sweet, with a rather delectable pastry precariously perched on the edge of his hoard.

Unable to help herself, Elizabeth was rather unconventional in her choices for Lord Carbeck. He received sausages, kidneys, buttered eggs, a slice of toast and a mountain of sautéed mushrooms. Elizabeth usually disdained the decidedly greasy and old-fashioned spread –and mourned the accompanying wastage– but today it suited her purposes very well. The blond Lord frowned at his plate, not only devoid of fruit but absent any preserve covered rolls, cakes and pastries as well.

His disgruntled mien was most gratifying and only became more pronounced when she said, with an impish grin, "Your temper being so saccharine this morning, I thought you did not need any further sweetening." The mark of her little joke returned her look sourly, while Elizabeth could have sworn she heard Georgiana's staid companion stifle a budding laugh.

Beverages were offered, prepared and duly accepted, the men uniformly opting for the coffee and the ladies partaking of the tea. The company ate in silence for a few moments, including Elizabeth, who had buttered an entire roll this time, smearing the one half with an apricot preserve and the other with strawberry. Since her earlier selections had been rather light and she did not want to sit awkwardly at the table while her companions ate, a second helping seemed sensible.

Thus she was more incredulous than outraged when her neighbour trespassed onto her very plate to snatch up the apricot half of her roll. Three feminine gasps met his bold, impolite move. Georgiana's lips were formed in a perfect 'o' of shock, an expression Elizabeth was sure she mirrored. The Colonel emitted a loud grunt a split second later and seemed to be on the verge of censuring his brother, but was stayed when another individual joined their merry little party.

Mr. Darcy strode into the room, surveying the scene before him in his habitually severe manner. Elizabeth felt a swooping sensation in her stomach. She could not look at him, she simply could not. His harsh words from the night before were still wreaking havoc on her composure, already stretched thin by this morning's challenges.

Insensible to much beyond her churning emotions, she muttered a greeting, not even sure of what she had said but a moment after the words had left her mouth. Elizabeth felt rather than saw Lord Carbeck lean towards her, his breath just tickling the shell of her ear when he whispered, "Where is your backbone, girl? I will give you your sweet back if you can retake your courage."

"Keep your ill-gotten prize," she muttered under her breath, surreptitiously edging her plate to the left and away from the pilfering Lord.

To Elizabeth's dismay, her obnoxious relative by marriage then resumed his prior campaign of outrageous flirting. Though she endeavoured to meet his plaguing manner with nonchalance, the palpable tension at the table grew to monstrous proportions. Until her husband snapped. "Go home. Flirt with your own wife, and leave mine alone," said he, his tone both scathing and too loud.

Not one to be cowered, Lord Carbeck countered with a few witty retorts and even tried to bring her into the dispute, but thankfully, with a vague set down he desisted, and departed shortly thereafter. As did Mr. Darcy and the Colonel, at the military man's request.

With the males, so went the tension. Even so, her suggestion to remove to the music room was gladly welcomed by her remaining companions, and the ladies departed also.

Elizabeth's days rattling around the large house with only her touchy husband for company were over, but soon enough the pendulum would swing in the other direction. The campaign to cement the new Darcy wife would entail entertaining– more parties, more balls and more dinners… more society than she honestly cared for. The next of these would be a dinner for Mr. Darcy's friends, the Bingleys, three nights hence.

She ought to do her duty to her sister before the whirlwind commenced and check over Georgiana's education, though she would do so in a manner as politic as she could contrive.

~~~v.-O-.v~~~

Was it too drastic a reversal to describe his wife as a consummate hostess? Wondered Darcy seated at the head of his table, surveying his guests and women.

Surely the dinner with his family had flirted with disaster, but then again, the Fitzwilliam gatherings were never for the faint of heart.

Lord Carbeck, Lady Carbeck and Lady Catherine all in the same room… He shuddered at the thought, and at the memory of the last Easter they had spent together perhaps ten months after Lord Carbeck's marriage. It was the final time the whole Fitzwilliam clan had been together, and for good reason. Even his uncle had lost his typically firm grip on his temper on that occasion.

And yet, on the other hand, smoothly entertaining the Bingley family, including that sloth Hurst and his wife, was certainly no easy feat.

Darcy had known trouble was on the horizon when Elizabeth had appeared in a soft orange gown. He had been acquainted with Miss Bingley for many years now, long enough to know that the lady believed she had a monopoly on the often garish colour.

By God, the dress looked magnificent on Elizabeth. It was not a lurid orange, rather, the crushed silk was more the shade of old vellum, with buttery tones where the fabric caught the light, while the deeper creases appeared to be that subtle orange or, in some places, a brown colour even.

As was typical with Elizabeth's choice in attire, she had not muted the richness of the fabric with excessive embellishment. The gown had a thick braid, shimmering and golden, wrapped just under the line of the ruched bust of the dress. Thinner braids in the same metallic material circled both arms at the edge of her sleeve. Otherwise, the only other feature was a thin line of lace running along the edge of the dress' neckline, caressing the globes of her breasts, pushed up enticingly by her stays.

His gaze may have lingered on her bosom overlong, but he congratulated himself on not reaching out, on not running his index finger along those tantalizing dips and swells. The temptation still made his fingers itch and tingle. He had not made any nocturnal visits to his wife since their discussion several evenings before.

Shaken by the candid conversation, Darcy had felt unequal to the challenge of bedding his wife for a multitude of reasons, many of them conflicting. Unsatisfying as the restrained acts had been, nonetheless they had obviously allotted him some measure of relief in days prior, if his new state of heightened awareness was anything to judge by.

Confident that she was nothing more than an avaricious chit, whose entrapment had more to do with luck than intelligence, his anger-addled mind had found it well within its power to justify maniplulating her as he saw fit.

The occasional twinges of conscience, usually when she behaved in a way unexpected, were dismissed, some with more effort than others. That is, until the combined instincts or common observations from Lord Carbeck and then Colonel Fitzwilliam had cracked his formerly secure view of his marriage and wife.

The advice of his cousins to observe his wife more closely had shown him much to admire: her fine mind principally, that is when he was not distracted or beguiled by the sweet little package it was wrapped up in. His fear of her sensuality was all tied up in his belief that she had willfully and intentionally set out to pin him in the parson's mousetrap, and thus would not hesitate to use any weapon to control him, including his own desire. As his uncertainty over her true motives grew, so did his carnal craving for her. But where did his lust for her end and his burgeoning appreciation for her intellect begin?

Darcy had watched her trounce his uncle –a worthy opponent – at chess. A victory of merit and deserving of respect. But the way she had twirled a curl around her finger while thinking was entirely hypnotic, her head tilted to the side exposing the elegant line of her neck had made him long to worship it with his lips and perhaps his teeth. He had been frequently distracted by the way Elizabeth had tapped her finger against her smirking mouth when she was about to make a clever move. Darcy vividly remembered that mouth opened in pleasure when she rode him on their wedding night. The overwhelming urge to see that rictus of rapture again –as soon as could be– had accelerated his breathing and tightened specific parts of his anatomy.

Lord Carbeck had darkened his threshold yet again, and flirted with his wife yet again, using Lady Matlock's calls as cover in the manner of a soldier and Trojan horse. And like the soldiers of legend, he had generated much mischief, but not of the variety his cousin no doubt intended.

Mrs. Darcy would have none of his antics, her subtle witty set downs frequently made Lady Matlock laugh, and although not quite as demonstrative, her sharp tongue and clever humour delighted Darcy. Her verbal lashings though, were often accompanied by an impish expression, a raised eyebrow and cheekily pursed lips; therein lay the trouble. The look became her very well, and seemed to rob Darcy of his senses: he had always been a touch too late with rejoinders, if he could manage to say anything at all. Upon reflection, Darcy felt like he had often sat there in silence, like the veriest fool, while the suave Lord Carbeck bandied inanities with his wife.

His cousin had undoubtedly derived as much enjoyment laughing at Darcy's ineptitude as he did gazing on the pretty Mrs. Darcy. The anger had carried him through the afternoon and made him short with his wife in the evening, dashing any chances –slim though they may have been– of visiting her rooms later.

Darcy owned he had not gained much ground when guests were absent and he had his ladies to himself either. In the manner of youths –be they male or female– Georgiana had proven very inconstant in her disapproval and annoyance with her new sister. It had both pleased and disappointed Darcy: Georgiana's genuine pleasure in a companion closer to her age was a boon and yet, could no-one remain at odds with his wife but him?

He also had reason to question his wife's novel methods of motivating the girl to improve her language skills. Two days prior, on walking the halls of his home, a stream of well-spoken French had tickled his ears, but though the language was immaculately pronounced, the content was skirting the very edge of propriety: a suggestive, though not outright vulgar, joke about the baker's daughter and the undertaker.

As if pulled by a magnetic force, his feet had turned of their own volition and marched him the few remaining steps to the music room, where his allegedly genteel women were arrayed. Georgiana was furiously flicking through her previously disparaged French dictionary with an intense look of concentration, usually reserved for musical pursuits. Disappointingly, Mrs. Annesley had joined in the questionable mirth, and as for the author of this little impropriety, his wife, she was literally glowing with amusement.

Darcy had been about to reprimand his wife for the unorthodox lesson, but upon apprehending his presence, the rosy, pleasant colour of her cheeks had suddenly vanished. Face as white as his cravat, she had mumbled a greeting and then fixed her gaze on her fingers, suddenly engaged in smoothing out a multitude of imaginary creases in her skirt.

Georgiana, bewildered by her sister's rapid alteration in attitude, had looked at him in mild consternation, before asking him innocently what a testicle was.

Darcy had just about choked, and Mrs. Darcy made a similar gagging sound before she managed to regain enough composure to tell Georgiana in a steady enough voice, "Your ear needs just as much attention as your pronunciation, the necessity of revising your diphthongs cannot be underestimated. I very clearly said _la cuillère_ : the spoon. Not _la couille_ : …well… Let us move on to some Italian instruction, what say you, Mrs. Annesley?"

It was nigh on impossible to reconcile the naughty lady who peddled saucy foreign jokes with the picture of poise that presided over his table in that very moment.

He needed no crystal ball to know that Miss Bingley would cross his threshold inclined to hate Mrs. Darcy, if for no other reason than for stealing the appellation Miss Bingley had long coveted. Before her brother had even finished introducing him as his friend from university, it was obvious the young woman had singled Darcy out as the companion of her future life. A lofty goal she had pursued with relentless determination, even in the face of his polite indifference and occasional unmasked flashes of contempt.

Yes, he had no doubt that her name alone would preclude Mrs. Darcy from gaining Miss Bingely's approval or friendship. But Miss Bingley had nearly had an apoplexy upon seeing Mrs. Darcy dressed in her signature colour.

Seeing the two women side by side, Darcy had again noted abstractly that although he had cordially detested orange when worn by his friend's peacock of a sister, the colour seemed to bring a glow to his wife's complexion, and it may have been his appreciative glances as much as the encroachment that set Miss Bingley off. Her thinly veiled contempt had been seconded by her parrot of a sister, and even the affable Bingley had squirmed in embarrassment at his relations' not-so-covert rudeness.

The predominant theme, the decoration of Darcy house, had carried them through into the dining room. "How pleased I am to note the eternal elegance of Darcy house has been preserved, Mr. Darcy. I applaud your lack of new decoration, Mrs. Darcy. It shows an admirable restraint I had not anticipated from your quarter. I have often thought these hallowed walls could use some modern adornment, certainly, but only a true lady could ever hope to balance the rich history present in Darcy house with a tasteful update. You have been wise to demur," said Miss Bingley, her voice superior, her manner grating on Darcy already. But years of exposure to her intermittent nonsense and with months as her houseguest he had built up a tolerance to her spite, an immunity, as one would call it. His wife had no such experience, and he naturally feared her temper, which had proven to be quite volatile in their short marriage.

Ready to act as he must to avert another dining disaster, he looked to his wife. She was holding on to her composure by a thread, but it was not anger that made her eyes sparkle and her lips tremble: it was glee and barely subdued laughter.

"Quite right, Miss Bingley, Darcy house is rich with antiquities; I will do my utmost to accord them the proper respect. I have not given a great deal of thought to how I might like to decorate. What would you suggest?" said Elizabeth, grinning like a housecat presented with a full bowl of cream, it was the same expression she had worn just before declaring checkmate to his uncle earlier in the week.

Darcy could only blink. Except for some fine paintings in the upper gallery, near to everything in the house was no older than thirty years, and as much as he loved his mother, he knew that a great deal of the decoration was in questionable taste. The gilt Greek statuary imitations were especially heinous. He knew he really ought to have done something about the decorating before now, but against the heavy responsibilities of running the family estates and managing their business interests, along with the care of a young girl, wallpaper and furnishings had paled into insignificance; thus the task was relegated to next week, next month or next season, for years on end. It was also an unrivalled test to sift the wheat from the chaff, his true friends from toadies, for no-one but a sycophant could compliment the décor with a straight face.

From that point on Caroline dominated the dinner conversation, offering a plethora of suggestions, from a Gothic inspired guest wing, to a Romanesque parlour, and a library using Egypt as the all-encompassing theme. Poor Georgiana sat with her eyes wide and mouth agape. He observed Elizabeth giving the girl a covert wink before telling Miss Bingley that an Egyptian library would be just the thing. "Don't you think, Husband?" his wife enquired with exaggerated innocence.

At the verbal reminder of their indissoluble relationship, Miss Bingley's enthusiasm faltered, but Mrs. Darcy's manners did not. She engaged Mrs. and Mr. Hurst in neat dialogue on their estate and plans for their time in town. Elizabeth did pause when Mr. Hurst bemoaned the loss of the fine hunting to be had at Netherfield, immediately enquiring why this should be so. Upon hearing of Bingley's disinclination to return to Hertfordshire, Elizabeth turned a suspicious glare Darcy's way, making him lose the thread of Bingley's conversation.

The men did not linger long over port, not from any great eagerness to mingle with the females, but in the recognition that this first meeting between Miss Bingley –always cutting, but bound to be doubly so in light of her disappointed hopes– and the ensconced Mrs. Darcy could be nothing but fraught. It could easily turn vicious if not closely monitored, for Bingley's sister had always been more determined than wise.

The entire situation made Darcy question the elaborate game of good manners. He had never warmed to his friend's sister, but good breeding and his great value for Bingley had prevented him from cutting the pretentious cit. Now he was entertaining a viper, exposing his wife and sister to her persistent disappointed malice, all because he had been a guest in the house of his good friend; not her house, mind, but his friend's. The obligation was patent, but frustrating nonetheless.

Eager to recover lost ground, Miss Bingley insisted that Mrs. Darcy open the instrument and exhibit forthwith.

The moment had come. He should have been better prepared. He should have coached her to…. to… what?... lie? He doubted his own ability to contrive a story plausible enough to prevent embarrassment. But despite their rough start, the idea of Elizabeth being ridiculed by a creature such as Miss Bingley was intolerable.

Darcy tried but no doubt failed to conceal his alarm, but it was clear Mrs. Darcy did not share his apprehension; she floated across the room, a sly smile barely lifting the corners of her lips. His wife's delighted amusement persisted all the way to Georgiana's beloved piano forte, commissioned from James Ball's London workshop not twelve months before the Prince Regent patronised the maker and turned his two month waiting list to that of two years for all new orders.

To cringe as your wife settles on the seat could never be good form, so Darcy quietened his trepidation and adopted an aloof mask, but he still watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. Georgiana supplied a few sheets of music from the far side of the room obviously at her sister's request. He was too far to discern which piece she had elected to play, but noted that Georgiana frowned ambiguously at the paper.

Elizabeth ran her fingers over the rich grain of the lid before opening it up and stretching her fingers. The time seemed to stretch infinitely in Darcy's mind before the first note vibrated through the room.

His wife closed her eyes in sensual pleasure at the fine sound of the first set of chords. The instrument by the standards of the house might be considered plain in appearance but its tone was without peer. As was her playing, to Darcy's great surprise and chagrin.

Her musical offering was most unexpected. The meticulousness and sensitivity with which she caressed the keys was a revelation, but the song was also like nothing he had ever heard before. Foreign and haunting, the chords built the presence of a melancholy and fear he could almost touch. Elizabeth swayed in time to the mournful tune, rarely consulting the sheets but playing from memory and from her heart.

Shortly her vocals began to bleed over the music, wavering not because of a lack of strength in her voice, but from an overwhelming depth of feeling. He could understand none of the words, but the eloquence of her rich voice evoked a sense of pleading, of begging, of unabashed piteous supplication. He could not tell the source of the suffering, but the extent of it was overwhelming. It was a breathtaking performance, surprising in every way: from her exceptional musicality, lovely voice, and that indefinable something that constricted his chest.

In the midst of her performance Darcy was haunted by his ignorant dismissal of her accomplishments. He vividly remembered telling the girl that he would arrange for a piano to be sent to her rooms once they reached Pemberley, so that her amateur playing need not trouble the household. Could he have been any more of a clod?

Though, he did wonder how a lady raised in that backwater of a neighbourhood could have cultivated such a superb musical talent. Surely her opportunities to study with a genuinely capable music master would have been few and far between, and he could hardly imagine Mrs. Bennet, or indeed Mr. Bennet, providing the framework of strict discipline required to achieve that level of proficiency at such a young age. Could she have been away from home on a quest for improvement? But why would the family be so secretive about their absent daughter, if that were the case? Wouldn't Mrs. Bennet have crowed incessantly about her accomplished daughter? And for that matter, why had Elizabeth not corrected him, asserted her achievements?

A final keening wail and a tapering off of some soft chords ended the song, but it was some moments before anyone was prepared to break the spell and applaud. When Darcy brought his own hands together, he noticed that they were shaking.

Miss Bingley stalked over to the instrument, standing behind Elizabeth's right shoulder since Georgiana still stood at her left. The tall woman hunched her shoulders to scrutinise the music score through narrowed eyes, the ridiculously long feathers attached to her large turban quivering with her agitation.

"But what strange language is it in?" enquired Miss Bingley with evident distaste, squinting at the words below the music.

"It is in Arabic," replied Elizabeth.

Beside Darcy, Bingley let out a big sigh, followed by a gay laugh. "So I was not the only one who did not understand a word of it, jolly good!" said he.

"I do not think any Arabic speakers would even understand me. My pronunciation is shockingly bad, though I should not admit it: I may just have been able to pass myself with some degree of credit, had I but kept quiet."

"It was so sad," interjected Georgiana. "What did the words mean?"

Elizabeth straightened her spine before answering, and Darcy suspected that her stare was contrived to rest anywhere but his direction.

"The song is a plea to God, a wife begging for divine intervention to spare her the indignity of loving her husband," Elizabeth said, squeezing Georgiana's hand. Darcy felt his own hand curl into a tight fist.

"But why on earth would one not wish to love one's spouse?" inquired an incredulous Bingley. A long pause followed the question.

"Many reasons I suppose," said Elizabeth with an unconscious frown. "But in this case the woman is one of many wives. She believes, and perhaps not unreasonably, that loving her husband can bring her nothing but humiliation and pain."

"Oh," sighed Georgiana, but Darcy felt the statement viscerally himself, like a blow to the stomach. The lingering effect of the music, perhaps?

"One of many wives!" decried Miss Bingley. "What a barbaric, wicked practice!"

His wife leaned back on the seat and gave a little laugh, "I do not know about wicked. Moses was reported to have kept three wives... But I feel for the woman, bound in an unequal union, afraid to even lose the freedom of her heart," his wife mused, sliding the sheets together.

To everyone's surprise Mr. Hurst took that moment to enter the conversation in a gruff manner, "An unfair system, I believe. It must place great strain on a man providing for the wellbeing of multiple women and their respective offspring."

Eyes riveted on Elizabeth, Darcy saw the wry expression that slipped across her countenance.

"I think the provision of material support is not the key issue," said Darcy. "The essence of polygamy places a woman in a disadvantaged position, to have so many rivals within her own home. She does not own her husband in the manner of a monogamous English wife."

"English wives own their husbands, you say?" Elizabeth turned towards him with a raised brow. "We view the construction of matrimony very differently, then. Short of intentionally causing her death, there is very little an English husband cannot do to his wife. All of us married ladies live on sufferance."

"I would never hurt you," he replied too quickly, wincing even as he said the words, which trod the fine line between interpretation and outright falsehood.

Perhaps he had never caused her pain of the physical kind, but he could not deny that he had done nothing to secure her happiness. His reflections these last few days prompted him to admit –even if only within the privacy of his own mind– that he had likely caused his wife some emotional pain with his more boorish statements.

"It is not about what an honourable man would do, but what all husbands are entitled to do by law which offends my, and I daresay many wives', sensibilities." The skepticism was there in her body language, if one looked close enough, though his wife's face was sweet.

"I shall obey my husband in all things. I have a great respect for the natural order of marriage and see no need to rail against it or lament," said Miss Bingley, leaning sharply away from his wife, though she stopped short of taking an actual step away. Nevertheless, Miss Bingley's opinion of her hostess was made evident by the ugly twist of her mouth.

"I am sure your husband will be blessed with happiness," Elizabeth replied, her countenance vacant but for the telltale sparkle in her eyes.

"What I want to know is how a Hertfordshire flower like yourself got her hands on a song all the way from the sandy Middle East," said Bingley, steering the conversation into safer waters, bless him.

Standing up, Elizabeth nodded at Bingley, bestowing upon him a dazzling smile. "Ah, but the song is not truly of that region or even from that region. It was written by a European traveller who spent many years immersing himself in the various cultures and customs of the Ottoman Empire and other nations situated on its borders. Thus we get a song written for our own instruments, with a foreign flavour, but still within my meager capabilities."

Turning to Miss Bingley, Elizabeth fastened her hands on the lady's upper arm, steering her closer to the instrument. "Now it is your turn, I have heard much praise of your playing. You must play a piece, I insist."

No coaxing was required. Miss Bingley played and sang her way through a complex Italian aria with technical perfection. It was a piece Darcy must have heard played twenty or more times, at numerous dinners and musicales, by various society Misses. Miss Bingley played the same song, the same way, with a ponderous precision that made the undeniably difficult piece utterly boring. His mind naturally wandered to Elizabeth's heart-wrenching song, though his mask of polite attention remained affixed.

When Elizabeth had faltered he had not thought of missed keys, but rather those fleeting imperfections had added to the musical spell she wove. Her comments also plagued his mind. Darcy had never raised a hand to his wife, but hurt could come in many forms. He was guilty of considering her wishes irrelevant, purely because of how their union had come about. Regret and uncertainty formed a large lump in his throat.

Did she feel only slightly less vulnerable than the woman of the song? And if her views on marriage matched the expressed sentiment, why had she been willing to go along with Mrs. Bennet's scheme? His heavy thoughts and the increasingly heavy pounding of the keys as Miss Bingley raced toward her crescendo made his head throb painfully.

Miss Bingley's air was triumphant as she finished the last few flourishes of her song, the conquering expression clearly directed at his wife. It raised Darcy's hackles ever so slightly.

"You know, I could recommend some more fashionable pieces to you, Mrs. Darcy, the most popular compositions," offered Miss Bingley, adopting that condescending manner again, the one that usually bothered Darcy no more than a gnat buzzing around his ear, but now he found her continued assaults on his wife increasingly infuriating.

That his wife was not of the same mind was readily apparent by her reply, which was all humility and friendliness. Now seated between Mrs. Hurst and Georgiana, Elizabeth raised a small hand, "A kind offer, I am sure, but alas I would not do that or any such piece much credit," she said, flexing her fingers. "You see, I have not been blessed with the digits to execute the most complex compositions. You on the contrary carried off that song with the precision of a striking clock."

Or perhaps Mrs. Darcy was not as accommodating as she appeared! Darcy had to stifle a smile at the subtle jab: yes he could liken Miss Bingley's playing to listening to a ticking clock, though, to the clock's credit, it was usually quieter.

"Oh, but you could modify the songs to suit your limitations! I could ask my music master about it tomorrow," said Georgiana kindly, missing the restrained byplay between the two hostile females.

Elizabeth patted her sister's arm affectionately but looked at Miss Bingley when she said, "That is a dear thought, sweetling, but as a wife I have many duties to attend to, less opportunities to exhibit and a great deal less incentive to demonstrate my questionable musical prowess."

Innocent Georgiana nodded at the explanation, while Miss Bingley's eyes narrowed. The small smile that played at the corners of his wife's mouth made a warm feeling spread through Darcy's chest.

Georgiana was sent off to bed, to rest well before her lessons on the morrow. Once deprived of her company, Miss Bingley began to claim fatigue, her tone becoming insistent when Mr. Hurst suggested they make up a four for cards.

Thus their company was seen off earlier than anticipated, but not so early as to signal rudeness on the part of either party.

"So how did you like the Bingleys?" asked Darcy once all the hubbub of departure was through.

"I have met them before," she replied languidly.

"At the Netherfield ball? In the receiving line? For all of three minutes, I would guess." His mention of the ball that had sealed his fate made her blanch.

Recovering with the speed of a ton veteran she said, "Mr. Bingley is a very gentleman-like man, Mr. Hurst… well he did our table justice. Mrs. Hurst was very… pleasant?"

Darcy absentmindedly followed her up the stairs, perhaps moving a shade too close at times. "And Miss Bingley?" he prompted.

A wide smile lit up her face, and it was like clouds parting after the rain. "I adored her! Is she always like that? She was almost too delightful to be believed," she gave him a sly grin. "You broke her heart very badly, I suspect. I shall have to punish you with an Egyptian Library or perhaps I shall re-do your study in the exquisite manner of 1001 Arabian nights."

Drawn by her light and teasing tone, Darcy almost said that Miss Bingley's pursuit had nothing to do with hearts but everything to do with pocket books and connections, but in an unprecedented display of self-regulation he curbed the statement, only laughing in reply.

Then they were standing before her door. The idea of going inside with her inflamed his senses, and before he knew it, he had taken a small step closer. Was he imagining it, or could he really feel the heat radiating off her body? Elizabeth let go of the doorknob, standing there before him awkwardly. Oh he wanted to go in, but more than that he wanted to be invited in by his lovely wife, and yet she said nothing.

After another span of tense seconds he cleared his throat. "Though it is not something often associated with the Lady, Miss Bingley does make a good point: the house actually could use some modernising. Could you… Or perhaps you would like to start with one room we could assess… Or rather go from there–"

Elizabeth reached out, maybe with the intention to silence his mouth with her finger, but paused before making contact. The slim digit hovered there, teasing him, tantalising him. Darcy wanted to open his mouth and take it in. He almost groaned at the thought.

She shook her head, dropping the hand. "I think I may have drunk too much wine with dinner," she said. "I promise no outlandish themes, just an elegant English home, or the best that I can contrive… I am very tired." The last was said hesitantly, her dark eyes assessing him: friend or foe? they asked.

"Of course," he replied, "I understand." Did he? Or did it merely feel like the correct response? Whatever the case, a brief expression of gratitude lifted her lips in a tiny smile and she slipped through the door, leaving her very aroused but ultimately confused husband to lean his forehead against the closed door and wonder why he had not pressed for the intimacy he craved this night, or the nights prior, and if he were creating a dangerous precedent in his marriage.

 ****** _ **Softly Chants**_ **** Review, Review, Review. Please…..**


	11. I Said, No Thank You

**A/N: A hundred apologies! A thousand! A Million apologies for the delay!**

 **Really it should be my kids apologizing, and my Husband. Three Business trips in three weeks have left me feeling like a single parent. The kids are fine for the first day or two, but every extra night their Dad is away begins the deterioration in their behaviour (which is never that great to begin with) which starts off a chain reaction, my patience goes, the fighting between the boys gets worse, I get more upset. Until I am a total blubbering mess by the time my man comes home. Needless to say, creativity is at all time low during such times.**

 **But the chapter is here, and work has begun on the next.**

 **I hate doing this, but I would hate for the story to be stolen:** _Anything contained in this topic posting is the sole property of the author, unless expressly stated otherwise. This story, the author notes and comments are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned._ __

 **In other news, 1000 follows! Wooohoooo! I am overwhelmed by the response. And of course the generosity of my betas, Lenniee you make it all better, always, Lucy, thanks for the story chat and edits. K, you too and our guest beta Miss Phryne Fisher.**

 **Readers! I love you all, please review, please favourite, please follow and don't forget to review!**

Chapter 10

 _Mr. Kennet,_

 _My apologies for my excessively tardy reply. Though I read your letter almost the moment it arrived, I have been at a loss as to what to do, and thus what to write. Rest assured that my thoughts have been with you and the beleaguered tenants under your care._

 _To say that I found your report alarming would be a gross understatement. I am dismayed by how quickly this dispute has escalated and saddened by the attacks instigated by the much honoured Laird of Duncaldine, that disadvantage my tenants far more than they impact me._

 _Until the local merchants can be convinced to accept the custom of the farmers from Kerridge Estates, I have sent a pair of carts and a wagon to you. The teams provided will stay till further notice; please make provisions for their extended residence in the manor house stables. I envisioned a three day a week schedule with alternating destinations to collect that which the tenants had sourced locally, but I leave working out the finer details in your capable hands._

 _Planning ahead, I will endeavour to send some men of a military background to you, they may assist in the purchase runs and perhaps keep an eye on the frequently blocked south road. Though he has not resorted to banditry yet, I have very little trust in the honour of our Laird Duncaldine and likewise in the local law enforcement, since your complaints have oft fallen on deaf ears._

 _I have an associate investigating the local constable who has been so dismissive of our complaints. Though I suspect it is merely a case of nepotism, rather than something more sinister, I owe it to those under my care to explore all avenues._

 _Continue to remove the illegally felled trees as they block the road. I also beg you to discourage any of the young hot heads that may wish to contrive a watch or any other ill-conceived notion. It is a persistent inconvenience, but merely an inconvenience nonetheless, not worth bloodshed._

 _I would not presume to…_

A knock at the door broke his train of thought, but Darcy had the presence of mind to lift his quill from the paper.

Though he had left explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed, he did not entirely repent the interruption. It was a difficult matter, and his course of action was far from certain. It was a state of affairs he could not like, as a man who both excelled at and enjoyed his role as the concerned and in-control master.

It did not follow that he was happy that Soames had permitted the interruption, and he was more than a little surprised when Lady Matlock was announced.

Barely looking up from his unfinished letter, Darcy said brusquely, "I believe you will find the ladies in the music room."

"Oh, Fitzwilliam, do not go punishing Soames for my insistence. I do beg your forgiveness for interrupting your work, but I was hoping we could have a little chat before the ball tomorrow evening," said Lady Matlock.

Darcy had been on the receiving end of enough of his aunt's 'little chats' to know what the term presaged –nothing good– but he did wonder if it was he who had offended, or if he was to be chastised as proxy for his wife.

He gestured to the seat on the other side of his large table. Lady Matlock continued to stand, her lips compressed as she gave the chair, the desk, and finally him a meaningful look. With a sigh Darcy levered himself up, feeling the slight tingles that accompany sitting in the one attitude for too long, and made his way around the desk. A wave of the hand asked if the matching chairs before the fire were more to her liking, and the small regal nod from the lady said yes. He chose to ignore the satisfied smirk that accompanied her acceptance.

Crossing his legs upon taking his seat, Darcy asked, "How many offences shall this 'little chat' cover? Should I ring for tea and cake or forgo refreshments, for fear that I will be unable to hold anything once you commence your abuse?"

"How droll," said Lady Matlock, frowning, then she leant across the divide between the chairs to squeeze Darcy's forearm in comfort. "You know it has been many years since I have given you a good scold, and though I am sure you have committed hundreds of offences worthy of reproach since, and likely a dozen or more in the last week –for you are a man after all– that is not my purpose today."

Darcy rubbed his neck, then consciously stilled his limbs, waiting for her to continue.

"I would like to talk about Mrs. Darcy," she said, at length.

A hiss that he could not halt escaped his lips. His previous conceptions of the girl had been stretched by Lord Carbeck's and Richard's admonishments, and further tested by his subsequent observation, and yet he had not quite surrendered to the idea that she may not actually be of a mercenary nature.

If you looked at Mrs. Darcy sideways, and squinted a little, you could perceive an innocent country girl without an avaricious bone in her body. Yet when her temper was raised or when she struggled, you could see the powerful determination shining out of her petite frame.

Elizabeth had a generous heart, never more transparent than in her daily interactions with Georgiana. She had a passionate nature, discernible simply by observing the way she walked or even breathed, and exquisitely amplified the few times he had heard her sing and play. Since the Bingley dinner his desire for her had continued its ascent, reaching new and painful heights. Very painful. He reasoned that if he did not have her soon he might just combust!

The thing that held him back, though, was her determination. Scrutinising her closely –as had become his new habit— he could see the intense concentration belied by her casual friendliness. When entertaining his family, he could see her weighing and measuring each individual's responses and catering her own behaviour accordingly. She had become a great favourite with Lord Matlock in but three meetings, Lady Matlock came to see her daily and even the Colonel seemed to seek out her company above that of others during his short visits.

Watching her, Darcy wondered if he was only partially wrong. He wondered if rather than coveting his wealth, it was his position she had lusted after.

But then there were contraindications on that theory as well: she never missed an opportunity to scorn Lord Carbeck, though one could argue that she played him perfectly, as he was ever by her side despite her cutting wit.

"Fitzwilliam? William? Fitzwilliam! Are you even listening to me?" cried Lady Matlock.

Darcy shook himself, feeling a flush creep up from his collar and make its way to his cheeks. "My most sincere apologies, Aunt. I can claim no excuse for my lapse, except that I was wool-gathering. If you would repeat your last statement I would be much obliged."

Scrutinising her countenance Darcy saw her lips, already thin with age, flatten together for a moment, but his genuine contrition seemed to mollify her. Lady Matlock patted her coiffure, but fixed her now worried eyes on his face. Whatever she saw made her expression soften further. "You work too much and too hard. Now that you have added a wife to your burdens you must learn to pace yourself. To–"

"I do what must be done for those under my care. I shall do no less. For all that I love you dearly, I will not have this argument with you again, and I suspect it is not what you came here to say," he said firmly.

Lady Matlock huffed. "As I was saying then… You need to discuss clothing with Elizabeth."

Darcy winced. That he had handled the situation poorly was in no doubt, and although Elizabeth had rebuffed his attempt at a remedy, the ultimate fault lay with him. Aside from any concerns about the character of his wife, his behaviour was unhelpful at best, and if he could view it without self-deception, quite childish. He had let his anger rule him and acted contrary to all common sense; that a poorly dressed Mrs. Darcy would diminish the status of the family was indisputable. He had been petty and cruel, the whole debacle was a stain on his character and a chapter of his short marriage that had come to make him feel very uncomfortable.

"Do you not approve of her choices?" he enquired sedately.

Lady Matlock's fingers lightly tapped the arm of her chair. "No, not exactly," she said. "All that I have seen does lack the usual… that is to say… her choices are unique, but I think they suit her very well. If she were to try to copy our set she would always fail, be seen as a pale imitation, but by positioning herself as an original, she could gain acceptance through sheer novelty. Her gown for the ball tomorrow could not be more perfect."

Lady Matlock paused, searching his features, her brows drawn together. "What can you tell me of Elizabeth's circumstances before your marriage?"

"She is the daughter of a country gentleman from Hertfordshire," he said.

"How enlightening," she replied, the sarcasm evident in her tone. "What concerns me is not so much the decoration of her gowns and accoutrements: they are uniformly charming. I might have even been tempted to patronise Miss Muira myself if her shop were not in Cheapside; but Elizabeth does not have enough, and I understand that she does not plan to order more items for the season."

He could not bring himself to look at his aunt. He let her quiet words wash over him and looked determinedly at his boots.

"In the daughter of a country gentleman, who has four sisters and no brother, frugality is to be admired. As the wife of a great landowner, she must maintain a status in our circles and much of that is dependent on her dress, amongst other things. I think you should give her some perspective. She was not raised to this life and by marrying her you have taken the fish out of her pond, so to speak. You must gently encourage her to adapt to her new role. The sharks, they will be circling, do not provide them an opening to drag her under."

If only Lady Matlock could understand the irony of what she was asking, that he ought to persuade Elizabeth to spend more money. The irony was so thick he could almost choke on it. Unable to speak, he merely nodded.

His aunt looked thoughtful before continuing, "It is not the gowns alone, Fitzwilliam. It would help if Mrs. Darcy was seen shopping with myself and Georgiana. Family solidarity and all that will go a long way, if you would—"

"I will take care of it," he said tersely.

Lady Matlock's contemplation was penetrating; she seemed to choose her words with utmost care. "Obviously the planning for tomorrow evening's ball has been underway for some time and the guest list long finalised, but perhaps in the future we could include some of her London friends in our events. What type of people are they?"

Darcy swallowed; the enquiry was bound to be made sooner or later; his family were not as witless as the Meryton natives. "I know none of her London connections aside from her Aunt and Uncle, currently bound for India."

Lady Matlock frowned at another threadbare piece of intelligence. Searching his face again, she quietly asked, "William, were your intentions towards Mrs. Darcy always honourable?"

Darcy's stomach churned, he knew that he must look a fright, if Lady Matlock's tight shoulders and wary eyes were anything to go by.

"We are married now, it should not matter."

"I will not denounce you for your prior sentiments, nor for what was obviously the clandestine nature of your courtship. The marriage is in place now and you have made good on your actions." When he made no reply, she huffed again. "I will not mince words with you, Nephew. You have married beneath you, but since the milk cannot be put back in the pail, I suggest you embrace what your weakness has led you to. We are all of us trying to help you, a task made difficult by your deliberate obtuseness and black tempers. I would—"

"Enough!" He took deep breaths trying to calm his agitation. "Your sons, attempting to assist me? Is that what you would have me believe, while James pants after my wife like a dog?"

"Calm yourself. James provokes, it is true, but there is no harm in him."

Darcy scoffed. "You are blinded by maternal partiality."

"That may also be true. But despite his faults, he will always be my darling boy," she replied without anger but rather a rueful smile. "You will discover the unavoidable bias of parenthood soon enough."

The last stunned him, pained him. Though his repeated nocturnal visits had been aimed towards that very goal, the concept of a child had remained academic. An heir to inherit the estate, preferably a boy, though not a necessity.

Darcy had admittedly wondered at the wisdom of getting a child on an unknown quantity of a woman, but the ruminations had centred on the child's mental acuity to rise to the great challenges of managing an estate. In the case of female offspring, he wished to avoid the wild temperament that had beset his wife's younger sisters. He had reasoned that he could raise a boy to a finer state of intelligence and he could check any wayward daughters through persistent nurture. But the fact remained he had not made the leap; he had not considered them as beings he would love and cherish.

It was strange, really; he had always thought of children as a blessing and a joy prior to his marriage. He had not even been aware of the theoretical transition, nor considered from whence it had sprung. He could only surmise that he had not seen their lives as joined in the way he had always envisioned marriage. Darcy thought he would do little more than endure his connection to Elizabeth and thus had not considered any children as being 'theirs'. Nor had he given a thought to loving them.

He rubbed his chest in a tight circle, trying to ease the burning pain that had taken up residence under his breast. There may already be a child, secure under her own ribs, blissfully growing in the dark, waiting to become a part of his patched together family. A child conceived in mindless duty, not the deep abiding love he had always wanted. A child that his wife would love with a depth and sincerity of affection she could never feel for him.

He startled at the thought. Did he want Elizabeth's affection?

Of late she had taken to ignoring him, or no, that was not quite accurate. Elizabeth was wary around him. She frequently avoided eye contact, she did not initiate conversation with him and when he tried to engage her in a discussion her answers were typically short, though not lacking in intelligence. She did not tailor her behaviour to suit his tastes, though advancing or crushing her social ambitions was within his power.

She did watch him, though. He had felt the prickle of awareness more than once and turned to find her eyes on him. Being who she was, Mrs. Darcy did not flinch or look away: she would stare him down in the way he might a wild animal, one you were not willing to turn your back on.

He watched too, but his looks were hungry. How could she miss the way his eyes lingered on her light and pleasing figure? The way he burned for her? His fingers itched to touch her whenever she was nearby.

Even more pathetic, she had teased him over breakfast the morning prior, and a peculiar warmth had enveloped his chest; when he had met her with a light parry of his own, her sweet smile had made his heart stop.

If she craved a wider social circle, a more educated acquaintance, could he blame her? He could not deny her intelligence; the humorous way she had baited Miss Bingley had been delightful without ever crossing the line into cruelty. Or her ability to hold her own against Lord Matlock's highly developed intellect, though their discussions of Philosophy often became more erudite than even he could follow.

She would have been wasted married to some _almost_ gentleman, confined to a pastoral life, an existence that could never provide the requisite stimulation to nourish such a mind. He could see her agile intellect atrophy, her playful wit become bitter and mordant. He would not have wished that upon her.

The evidence of the night they had met was against her innocence, though. What could a gently bred lady mean skulking about alone in the dark? Running? Why would she have been running in a neighbourhood surrounded by her friends and family, except for some nefarious purpose? When he thought back upon the sequence of events, he even believed her little hands had clutched at him immediately preceding their fall. And the most damning piece of evidence had been the immediate arrival of witnesses to what had hereto been a deserted part of the house during the festivities.

But what if it were just some terrible mistake as his cousins had suggested? In what light did that paint his behaviour in the first month of their marriage? His mind shied away from the possibility.

Usually prone to excessive self-flagellation –mental if not physical– Darcy had tortured himself for months over the inattentiveness that had, in his mind, been the deciding factor in his sister's near ruination. Those familiar with him knew that he looked after his tenants with a fanaticism that bordered upon insanity, taking upon himself many of the misfortunes that would not be laid at his door by any temperate mind.

Mayhap his very identity was at the crux of the issue. He could not allow her to be anything other than a mercenary, for if she was innocent of calculation, his retaliatory actions had been shameful beyond anything that had come before and perhaps beyond reparation. Could he presume to call himself a gentleman when he had treated his wife so poorly? Even if she had been mercenary, as the tide of his anger lowered, he had found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable with his recent course. Without that small –yet insufficient– excuse for his abuses, he wondered if the truth of how he had behaved might just be enough to unman him.

Darcy scrubbed his hands over his face, once, twice but was halted from repeating the movement yet again by smaller, softer hands upon his own.

He looked between his fingers and into the worried eyes of Lady Matlock, now standing stooped in front of him. Gently pulling his hands from his face, she gave them a squeeze. "There is no need for despair. If I have not said so before, let me do so now: your wife is a treasure. I like her very much, no matter how the marriage came about. And I will always love you, no matter how the marriage came about."

When he did not respond immediately, he saw her shoulders drop, just a fraction. "I am sorry for interrupting your work, and equally sorry for my interference."

Before she could make good on her intention to leave, he fortunately came out of his stupor. Clutching her hand as she walked between the chairs, he pressed a kiss to it, and then cradled it in both of his own. "Interrupt me whenever you see fit," he said solemnly.

Darcy walked his aunt to the door with a firm promise to see her tomorrow evening, and a more reluctantly given one to _dance_ tomorrow evening. As much as he loved Lady Matlock in general, if there was an aspect of her character he could not love, it was her proclivity for taking advantage of any momentary weaknesses or flashes of sentimentality in her menfolk.

Now there was naught to do but wait until his wife answered his summons. He cast a quick assessing look at the drinks trolley, but turned away. Darcy had sensibly curtailed his imbibing after Lord Carbeck had exploited his novel state to pry loose too many secrets.

Darcy found himself rather anxious about his upcoming conversation with his wife. Vacillating between indifference and temper lately, he did not know how Mrs. Darcy would react to this further intrusion into the hereto sensitive issue, and thus decided he ought to have all of his wits about him.

When Soames finally ushered Mrs. Darcy into the study, it was plain to see that she had decided to adopt her attitude of calm indifference today, but his palms still began to sweat. Her curtsey was shallow, and Elizabeth seemed to find a great many aspects of his study uncharacteristically fascinating. She looked at the painting above his desk, the desk itself, the fire was well stoked by her scrutiny and she even regarded his shoes for a moment. Yes, her gaze visited a great many places but conspicuously avoided his eyes, in a more pointed manner than she had at breakfast. He surreptitiously rubbed his hands on the heavy fabric of his trousers and led her over the seat so recently occupied by Lady Matlock.

She sat with her back ramrod straight, perched near the edge of the chair.

Darcy felt a frown mar his brow and cleared his throat before speaking. "I wanted to speak to you." He cringed, instantly wishing he could take back the inane statement.

"That is, I had a visit from Lady Matlock, just before," he continued.

Raising an eyebrow she replied, "I know, she said she planned to speak to you."

He took a deep breath to disperse the excessive anxiety that constricted his chest, and hopefully allow his mind to produce speech that did more than repeatedly state the obvious.

"She raised some concerns about your wardrobe," Darcy said tentatively. Elizabeth did not respond verbally but turned her face towards him; her expression was difficult to decipher, except that she was waiting.

Thus the words came tumbling out in a less restrained and logical manner than was his wont. That Lady Matlock did not think she had enough gowns or outfits, that she needed to accustom herself to her new status, through attire and spending. To cement her position she needed to be actively seen with the family, to prove their acceptance was not just a face they were putting on a bad situation, merely for the duration of the ball. A vague reference to him acting wrongly may have been tucked in somewhere, but he could not be sure, such was the rapidity of his verbal sprint.

He knew he finished with the declaration that he would set up an account for her at the modiste that his sister and aunt frequented, yet today, for her to take advantage of at her earliest convenience. He knew, because he was about to say more, strangely unable to help himself, when she held up a hand.

"No, thank you," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no thank you," she repeated with asperity.

He blinked. "I do not consider that an option."

"You made it very clear that I had a budget –a budget you knew to be insufficient– and I was to work within the constraints of that budget without assistance or interference," she said.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face; it was too much to hope that she would let him off easy, for he did not deserve it. "I was wrong. I shall admit it, for it is true. Now if you would kindly allow me to address the issue, I would be most grateful. You must know that what I suggest is best for everyone involved."

"It is not the best for everyone involved!" she cried, her prior cloak of disinterest falling away like leaves in autumn, stripping her bare. Her eyes wide and suspiciously glassy, and the way she had begun to mutilate her lower lip seemed incongruent with the mundane nature of the matter.

Inspiration struck and he raised his hands, trying to calm and placate her without actually touching her.

"You can have nothing to fear. My aunt, and I daresay my sister, will be with you. Follow their example. Should anyone be rude to you, Lady Matlock will make her displeasure known. She is fond of you already; you may not have noticed," he said in a soothing voice.

Thus he was not prepared for the mingled incredulity and rage that exploded upon her countenance barely a breath later.

"Really, Sir, what a thing to suggest! Allow me to remind you that I am a gentleman's daughter. I am well-equipped to move among the gentry without fear." She paused to take a handful of heaving breaths.

"When I had an entire wardrobe to assemble on a limited budget, I made an arrangement with a dressmaker I knew of in Cheapside," she continued in a more moderate yet still exasperated tone. "Miss Muira, while talented, is as yet unknown. I did not have the requisite funds to purchase all the necessary gowns, and she knew she might have to wait years for me to settle my account. I barely had enough to pay for materials, and yet she agreed to help me, provided that she was my exclusive modiste, and she reserved the final say on what I am to wear this season."

Darcy mulled this new piece of information over. It was a rather clever arrangement, but there was no denying that being seen shopping with his family would ease her transition into her new world.

"Very well, contact Miss Muira to determine how much is owed for the gowns supplied and those in progress. Ask her to nominate an additional sum for the breaking of the agreement and I will pay it."

"No, thank you," was her reply, delivered coolly.

"Come, you must see that this will be for the best. I will compensate Miss Muira, and you will shop where the rest of the _ton_ shops, thereby cementing the family connection. I think Georgiana would be thrilled to go shopping with you."

"She already has, in Cheapside, and if you would like her to choose gowns with me she is welcome to do so… In Cheapside!"

Darcy felt a flood of heat wash through his body as anxiety was submerged by his rising anger. How much was he to blame for the contentious nature of their marriage when she could be so… so mulish! She had previously declined his offer of additional funds and now she was denying a well-reasoned plan to establish her image through dress and her status through family connection in the one move.

He growled, propelling himself to his feet and walking over to the fireplace. And Elizabeth followed him, stepping her tiny frame into his line of vision.

"If you want me to go to your aunt's modiste then you must be prepared to take me bound and gagged, for I will not go there under my own power and will certainly take every opportunity to resist," she goaded.

"Why must you be so stubborn?" he snarled. Elizabeth took a step back but her whole demeanour was nevertheless unrepentant.

"My stubbornness is in direct correlation to your obtuseness. Try to understand my perspective and you shall find my resistance perfectly rational and correct." She speared him with her dark eyes. "Miss Muira has come to mean a great deal to me. She was a friend to me when I had none. The opportunity to showcase her work to the clientele most suited to her is not something money can buy. She has many under her care who are dependent upon her success. But even laying all of that aside, I gave my word and I shall not break it."

Darcy wanted to tell her that the future prospects of her Cheapside modiste were no concern of hers, that no matter this Miss Muira's situation, she was not Elizabeth's responsibility. But it reeked of too much hypocrisy, even for him. How many times had he been told that he took too much upon himself? That he could not save the entire world? It had led him into trouble on occasion, his sense of duty, but he clung to it as an integral part of his identity. Could he castigate his wife for her commitment to duty?

Likewise, Darcy considered his word his bond. If Elizabeth felt so strongly about fairness and honesty in her dealings, was that not a good thing? Arguably yes, to both, but only in as much as it did not impinge upon his family interests.

"Might I suggest a compromise then?"

He noticed her chest swell, her expressive eyes signalling an impending set down, then she registered what he had actually said and deflated slightly.

"What if you ordered just a riding habit with Lady Matlock? You could be seen in Bond Street but leave the bulk of the wardrobe with your existing seamstress."

"No," she said, crossing her arms. Darcy could feel a scowl twisting his features and also observed a widening in his wife's eyes again.

"But I see your point," she said slowly. "Shopping with your aunt need not include clothing though, perhaps if we went to Gunter's… Or maybe a bookstore."

Despite the tumultuous nature of the conversation, Darcy could not help but chuckle at her hopeful expression. "I do not think you will encounter the fashionable ladies of the Ton in a bookstore. But Gunter's is a valid alternative and you might also wish to perhaps visit a cosmetics establishment."

A small frown turned down her lips and she raised a hand to her cheek.

"No!" he quickly qualified. "I did not mean that you needed… I just thought you might enjoy it."

She gave a wan smile, but then her countenance suddenly shuttered and her body seemed to curve in on herself slightly. "We are not making good on our truce, are we?"

As a statement, it was very far off the course of their conversation so far, though he could not dispute its veracity. Rather tired of fighting himself, and quite sure he would not come off the winner if they kept at it, he could see no harm in following her divergent path.

Bracing his shoulders, he gave voice to the inclination he had been feeling since Christmas night, "I… I had looked forward to getting to know you a little better, in light of our understanding, our truce. But you seem to have been avoiding me. You have not been contentious, but unremitting evasion is nearly as opposed to forthcoming as spouting untruths."

Very hesitantly he reached out and took her hand. It was a very light contact, still she flinched a little, but he was relieved when she did not draw it back.

"Could we sit back down?" he asked gently. "Start over?"

There was a long pause before she nodded, and another between her nonverbal acquiescence and her actual moving to settle herself in the wingback chair once more. Darcy followed her lead, but the relocation seemed to breed awkwardness instead of dispelling it.

He picked at an imaginary piece of stray thread on his sleeve and cleared his throat. He was beginning to see a pattern in their quarrels: a sharp flare of anger –either on his part or hers– then sharp words were exchanged and finally a brief shining moment of understanding. That is, if she did not run away, which she was also in the habit of doing if their dissension became heated.

Darcy assigned himself the goal of setting a new, more congenial, route for their future interplay, but for the time being he tasked himself with extending their usually brief cessation of hostilities. "I very much enjoyed your song, the night that the Bingleys dined with us. I wonder if you would play for me some nights; I cannot think of a performance that has given me greater pleasure."

Darcy watched a becoming blush steal over Elizabeth's face. She shook her head. "A very pretty compliment; if only I could believe in your sincerity, Sir! A man in the habit of hearing the very best performers must recognise my limitations on the instrument, especially one with such a great proficient as your sister under his roof," said she, and there was no barb in her speech, rather a playfulness that he found more than a little alluring.

"I am not a man who deals in falsehoods. If I tell you I liked your playing, you may trust that I mean it. If you need authentication in this instance, I shall not be offended and provide it thus with the honest disclosure that yes, Georgiana –and even Miss Bingley– play with more technical precision than you, but they also play with the same affected air drilled into them by a generation of artless music instructors. I will give into your care another secret. The way in which ladies of the _ton_ take some of the greatest, most emotive compositions of our time, and suck the very heart out of them turns my stomach; I cannot feign enjoyment of their mechanical and soulless performances, but I delighted in yours. The piece itself was refreshing and further enhanced by your artistic delivery."

Her reaction to his words included that lovely blush of hers, and he closely watched her lick her lips, while her face was partially turned away. He considered her to be genuinely shy of compliments rather than falsely coy.

"I am also torn," he continued. "I have thought that I might like you to instruct Georgiana in adding that indefinable something to her music. To add expression to her already advanced execution would be something, but if she were to incite such feelings in her audience as you raised in me I would be terrified by the crowd of swains I might find knocking down my door post her debut."

At that she gave a natural laugh, and for the first time since their wedding night, he saw a hint of awareness flare in her eyes. Darcy leant forward a little and licked his lips. "Did you study with a master at Longbourn?"

The shadow that briefly fell across her face smote his heart and made him wish the question unspoken.

"We did receive visits from a master at Longbourn, but I would give him credit for nothing beyond teaching me my first scales –even that he did poorly. A friend of my uncle's gave me lessons in town, though they were terribly infrequent and more often than not exceedingly short. I would say they were rich in inspiration and encouragement and I would be remiss if I did not mention that he provided me with a treasure trove of unusual compositions. Yes, I would assign this teacher the lion's share of any credit there is to be had." She paused to look thoughtfully at her left hand, spreading the fingers in her lap. "He was most disappointed when he realised that I would never have the physicality to achieve true mastery, then again, so was I."

"Did it grieve you very much?" Darcy asked.

She shook her head, yet answered in the affirmative, saying that she had wallowed in despair for all of a fortnight, but that it was not in her nature to grieve that which could not be changed and focused her study on her oft neglected voice. "I am quite reconciled to my limitations now, and grateful for the training I did receive. My station in life could have never permitted me to pursue music respectably, and if I did not marry –the likely outcome— there would have been few occasions for me to exhibit," she finished.

Now that was baffling. He tapped his finger against the arm of his chair, wanting to ask her to clarify, but her rigid posture and equally stiff way she held her face suggested she was not truly as comfortable with the topic as she affected.

He had no wish to further probe a subject that caused her pain, and yet the next subject he was pressed to bring could not lead to anything pleasant.

"Elizabeth, when I agreed to marry you, I suggested that we present the incident as a courtship that had got out of hand, an interlude that had got too passionate." Darcy tried to keep his voice moderate, as herculean a task as that was. His memories of that week between the ball and his wedding were anything but moderate.

He could still taste the rage he had felt that fateful morning, following the even more fateful Netherfield ball.

Darcy had spent the night pacing. Come morning he had accepted his fate, seeing no other path that would not threaten to expose his sister's transgressions, but he was far from happy and a continent away from calm.

He did not know what to expect from the family when he presented himself at Longbourn at the earliest polite hour. Smug satisfaction? Grudging respect? For doing what he must against his inclination or what was in his best interests?

He received neither, but was left cooling his heels just inside the entrance for what felt like an eternity before being shown into the master's library which also served as his study. The Master himself had ribbed Darcy over the scandal and resultant chaos _he_ had created in the neighbourhood, even though the subject of the malicious gossip was the man's own daughter! But Mr. Bennet's provocative humour paled into insignificance against the thinly veiled contempt displayed by the uncle.

The man had treated him like a vagabond begging scraps and even had the audacity to suggest they did not need Darcy to make amends for that which _he_ had carelessly broken. Had the entire household gone mad?

In the first show of mettle he'd witnessed, Mr. Bennet told his brother that he could not claim a father's privilege in deciding Elizabeth's future. Especially as the matter had such import to the fortunes of his other four daughters and the very respectability of the Bennet family as a whole. The other man had not subsided, but argued loudly with the patriarch and so violently, Mr. Bennet had asked Darcy to wait outside.

Wait outside! While they had debated his future, his fate! How dare they treat him like some errant school boy! The temptation to leave them to be boiled to death in their own scandal broth had been great. The yelling, high in volume and rich in venom, had been audible through the heavy oak door and a dozen paces down the hall. Though he had only been able to discern one word out of five, it was enough to inflame his temper further.

When he had been invited back into the room, he did not wait to hear the outcome of the argument.

"I will marry the chit." The uncle had tried to interject, but Darcy roared him down, "Be silent man! I will return in six days with a marriage settlement and a special licence in hand. In the meantime, you will both to your utmost to diffuse the scandal so brazenly created by _your_ females."

He had then pointed a finger rudely at the uncle, "You there, has the girl spent any time in London in the past year?"

"Yes, Sir," was the reply grudgingly given through clenched teeth.

"Through September or August?" Darcy had asked, still impatient and not inclined to hide it.

The man had nodded.

"And last winter?" Darcy had prompted, and was rewarded with another nod. "Even better," he had said without joy.

The portly man went to add something, but Darcy had made a chopping motion and cast upon him his very fiercest scowl. The need to escape had been completely overwhelming; to get out of there, while he was still hurling words only and not punches.

He had leant over the desk, loomed really, resting his knuckles on the flaking leather surface. Mr. Bennet had seemed to shrink under his regard, but Darcy waited for the older man to meet his eye.

"If you want me to save your chestnuts from the fire, I want to hear the locals buzzing with the rumours of our prior courtship in London. If I hear even a breath of an intentional entrapment, I will go and never return. Can I rely upon you to make it so?"

Mr. Bennet's blood shot eyes had blinked rapidly, but the man had eventually nodded. "It shall be done."

The pest of an uncle had stepped forward, face red, and tried to speak again. "Sir, unless you wish me to wash my hands of this mess, I suggest you keep your peace." Darcy had forestalled him, yet again. "I will place the announcement in The Times immediately upon my return to town. Expect me on Tuesday with the marriage settlement in hand. We shall marry the morning after. I care not who makes the arrangements, I will not dally over this distasteful business."

So the lie had been born. Mr. Bennet had kept his word. The fools who had watched his bride grow up had been all a-titter with the tale of her secret courtship, had laughed about their discovered amorous encounter. The marriage gave the episode respectability, barely, but did nothing to ameliorate the lack of decorum.

How much the family had told Elizabeth of the plan, he did not know. It had been a shabby lie then, and he could not like the idea of continuing with a story that painted his wife in such a poor light now. But it was all he had and he needed her assistance to assemble enough detail to sate the interest of his more curious London acquaintance. Though he vowed he would restrict the tale to the secret courtship, no mention of an improper embrace would be circulated by him or anyone who wished to claim a connection with him.

Darcy realised some of his latent anger must have seeped through his prior enquiry, his voice was moderately pitched but still Elizabeth had wilted as if he had shouted.

He took a deep breath, pushing the memory of Longbourn, her uncle and her father to the deep recesses of his mind and focused on gentling his voice. "I do not bring this up for any reason but to ensure our stories are congruent and convincing. I am not known to be a demonstrative man and I confide in few… I doubt anyone will ask out of anything but idle curiosity, but idle curiosity can turn into insidious speculation if we are not cautious," Darcy said, his words carefully measured.

She bobbed her head, but every line of her body spoke of her discomfort and unhappiness, making the anger triggered by his memories lose some of its burn.

"Could you tell me how you spent your time when you stayed in London?" he asked.

The extended wait before she spoke seemed terrible to him. Elizabeth was so still. "More or less like everyone else does, I suppose," she finally said. "I visited with friends, attended parties, some balls also, and made myself as useful as possible to my kind relatives."

"Let us focus on public rather than private amusements; I think it would be too much of a stretch to claim I met you through your relatives or their friends."

His comment inspired a more animated, if not desirable, response. Her chin went up and she balled her little fists. "I attended the theatre, various museums and I will admit I spent an inordinate amount of time in the Temple of Muses."

A smile touched his lips. He remembered her restrained delight when he had shown her the library, that is when he finally got around to giving her an extended tour of the house. "So you are a bibliophile as well! I can claim to prefer a good book over many amusements, I think a meeting at such a place would be plausible, if not entirely proper," he suggested in a conciliatory tone.

"As you wish," was her wooden reply.

"Would you like me to take you there, or would you prefer to add it to your itinerary with Lady Matlock?"

She graced him with a look so sharp it could likely cut stone. "While we are being so open and forthcoming, I shall tell you that you have left me with no funds to purchase a pamphlet, let alone a book. So although I did suggest it in the spirit of compromise, now I say: why torture myself? Even an ice at Gunter's is beyond my means. I am in debt to my seamstress, a debt that may take years to pay off. You have set me up for humiliation and failure; you must forgive me if I cannot simulate eagerness for your schemes."

He felt as if her words were a corporeal mass; they settled on his chest, pressing it with the weight of his shame. His mind scrambled for that anger that had sustained him in the earlier stages of his marriage but came up empty. He felt empty.

It took him a moment to connect that tapping sound with his study door, closed against prying eyes or curious ears. "Enter," he said around the lump in his throat.

Soames entered, moving more cautiously than before. It could have been simply because he was interrupting a man and wife in private discussion, but Darcy fancied the man could sense the tense atmosphere. How could he not? The all-pervasive tension was so thick you could nearly cut it with a knife.

"Sir, the carts and wagon have arrived. There seems to be some dispute regarding the animals to accompany the vehicles?" said Soames, clearly apologetic and confused.

Darcy cursed under his breath. What were the fools doing here? Their instructions were to depart for Scotland directly. Now they had wasted half a day's travel making their way into town from their perfectly selected departure point.

"I will be there directly."

"Very good, Sir."

Darcy scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration, thus nearly missed his wife's attempted departure immediately after Soames had made his efficient exit. Darcy jumped to his feet and lunged towards her. This time there was no mistaking her flinch, though her eyes sparkled with anger, not fear. "I will leave you to your responsibilities," she said, as her skirts swished with another step toward the door.

" _You_ are my responsibility," he snapped, feeling angry at himself. On nimble feet he positioned himself between her and the door. Her frown was chilling, but Darcy could not let the moment pass, he'd not leave another misunderstanding to fester.

"You are my responsibility and I intend to do better. Have your seamstress make up an invoice, the balance for all the gowns she has made thus far. It will be paid on the same day I receive it. I will set up an account with her and any other merchants necessary to have you outfitted properly. You may choose who you patronise, though I do urge you to consider the social ramifications of where you place your custom. I shall reimburse last month's pin money, as well as supplying you with this month's allotment, enough for some shopping, a book even. Would that make you happy?"

He searched her expression but her face, and most importantly her eyes, had gone completely blank. Then she turned her face away.

When she brought her head back it was his turn to recoil, for her face was an ode to fury, still lovely somehow, even with her teeth bared and her elegant brows heavy on her stormy eyes.

"Happy? No, it would not make me happy! I would not take a penny from you if there was any other way. But to refuse is to disgrace myself, so I accept. I will not lower myself by letting anger cloud my judgement, but I would humbly beg you to let me pass before the temptation proves too great—"

"Elizabeth, I—"

"Let me pass, please," she said, less angry and more plaintive.

Clearing her path, he anticipated one of her whirlwind exits, but she minced towards the door with exaggerated dignity. He had business to attend to, but he allowed her plenty of time to clear the hall, before he went about his errands with a distracted air that concealed a heavy heart.

 **Please Review. When I trying to convince my husband to cook dinner so I can write, I shall use your comments as evidence!**


	12. Obligation and Dancing

**A long chapter after a long wait.**

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Chapter 11.

Elizabeth looked at the collection of boxes as if one–or indeed all of them–might bite her.

Nearly a dozen cases covered in varying hues of leather, and one large roll of velvet, were all laid out on her escritoire. A rather ominous view, to her, at least. She had no doubt her mother would be in raptures over such a bounty; beyond the obligatory transfer of the meagre collection of Bennet pieces, she was not aware of Mr. Bennet ever gifting his wife with anything, decorative or otherwise.

Uncle Gardiner, a both generous and prudent man, could be relied upon to provide thoughtful gifts to all his family members. He outdid himself at birthdays, but was also prone to buy things on a whim for his loved ones. Elizabeth fingered the garnet cross at her throat. It had been one such spontaneous gift. He had seen it, thought of her, and decided she must have it! Or so he claimed.

Mrs. Gardiner had the loveliest collection of jewellery, not because her pieces were overly expensive, but because of the depth of feeling represented in each item. Her aunt's favourite piece was a highly unusual bracelet, done in green gold in the shape of vines wrapped around a red heart made up of expertly cut garnets. The bracelet had been neither purchased on impulse nor for a birthday, but rather as an apology.

Naturally, her aunt had not provided details of the quarrel, but, with a wistful smile, had told Elizabeth that Mr. Gardiner had presented the box with an air more devastated than mildly contrite. She had also related his words, "I must have your forgiveness for my blunder. Your good opinion is as essential to me as the air I breathe, for you hold my heart in your hands." The romantic sentiment–even if a little over the top when three long years of marriage ought to have cooled his ardour—had tickled her aunt's sensibilities. The vines entrapping the heart had been worn almost daily ever since.

Elizabeth wondered if her aunt was wearing it even now, while she stood on the deck of some far away vessel, looking out over the wide expanse of ocean.

Had she seen the way Elizabeth behaved yesterday, she would have been ashamed, or, at the very least, heartily disappointed. Tears pricked in Elizabeth's eyes. To open herself to her husband would only increase her vulnerability beyond that which she could endure. They had brief moments of light banter, but he was so changeable, her guard had become reflexive. The sublime tenderness of their wedding night, followed by the intense scorn, floated to the surface of her thoughts.

Elizabeth shook herself, then leaned back precariously on her chair trying to catch a glimpse of Mrs. White. Though she could not see her, the sound of muttering suggested the maid was occupied pressing her dress and would likely not trouble her for a few minutes at least.

Since her birthday was still months away and it could not be a gift of affection –for he felt none–she could only surmise the boxes represented an expression of contrition or matrimonial obligation. Though his transgressions were many and ongoing, she could not imagine him lowering himself to apologise through jewellery. He never deigned to offer a verbal apology, and certainly any admission of wrongdoing was pulled with all the resistance of extracting a tooth. No, certainly not an apology; she doubted that her absence at dinner had even been noticed, let alone lamented. She equally doubted he was aware that she had intentionally eaten breakfast early, as a device to avoid his company at the morning table. That only left obligation, probably grudging, which fit more closely with his character.

Presumably he wished her to pick something to wear to tonight's ball, for it would be noted if she did not. So they represented obligation, with a pinch of self-interest. She could have been disappointed if she had not hardened herself to being sensible.

She looked for White again, just before reaching a finger towards the square box on the far right. What was she so afraid of? She twisted the small hook-shaped catch—it was a little stiff—and then slipped her finger under the lid, opening it slowly and cautiously. _There you go, that was not so scary!_ Except that it actually was. The light met a frightfully distasteful necklace and everything about it was wrong! Elizabeth had the irreverent thought that if she attended the ball nude none might notice, so distracted they would be with this monument to pretension.

She frowned as she inspected the piece, trying to find some redeeming feature, and came up short: there was much to see, but little to like. The gem stones that made up the central choker were monstrous, both in size and colour. A central fleur-de-lis was created with clusters of large emeralds and was flanked by enormous rubies that decreased in size as they wrapped around the neck, nevertheless the smallest rubies were still of a size with her thumbnail. A row of pearls sat above, connected by heavy gold links, then whimsically much thinner gold chains were suspended from small links under the rubies. The loops they formed criss-crossed back and forth. The end each finished with a small emerald, then a larger ruby and finally pearls also. She groaned quietly, it was almost painful to look upon.

Thankfully her husband seemed to have sent her a selection of jewels to choose from, ostensibly the entire Darcy collection, which appeared to be vast. She fingered the gaudy necklace again, but soon brought her fingers to her temples. What could he mean by giving her such a thing? Would he intentionally try to humiliate her? It did not seem his style somehow. And no-one in their right mind would spend such an exorbitant amount of money on a practical joke: each individual stone would have cost a small fortune, the price of the whole must have been hundreds of pounds, if it cost a penny.

Elizabeth eyed the other leather cases suspiciously, but decided to plough through them. If she did it swiftly enough she might just discover something passable.

Quick work, by quick fingers, revealed a number of gem heavy pieces. She was relieved they showed a little more taste than her first example of the collection, but nevertheless none of them were for her. Aside from the overuse of vulgarly large stones, the general heaviness of the decoration was not to her liking. She fancied she would never feel comfortable wearing such excess: she would feel like a child dressing up in her mother's ball gown, a bit wistful but mostly immature, unable to fill out the dips and swells of the garment.

Left now with only one box and the velvet roll, Elizabeth worried that she might not find anything suitable. She opened the last box with the same trepidation that had characterised her first unveiling, but to her great surprise enjoyed a very different outcome once the faded buff leather surrendered its treasure. Also, the roll of velvet and its many pockets universally supplied trinkets to inspire delight rather than dismay. It appeared at least one Darcy wife had some taste and that her pieces favoured detailed workmanship accentuated with the tiniest of gemstones, which not only increased their beauty, in Elizabeth's estimation, but explained why they had survived the arrival of a new Darcy mistress.

~~~v.-O-.v~~~

Darcy would never come to know the intense speculation that had surrounded him most of his adult life and the unique and puzzling picture he presented to his peers, most especially those of the gentler sex.

When he had burst onto the London scene the year he reached his majority, obviously eager to meet every debutante on offer and even more eager to fall in love, all the matrons of the _ton_ had rubbed their hands together in glee. Those same hands had feverishly pushed unattached daughters, sisters, nieces, and even granddaughters into the path of the earnest and wealthy young man.

The Darcy heir was so open and artless in his intention to enter the married state, his capture by the end of the season was considered as sure as the rising sun.

It could have been viewed as a conquest too easy, yet the question remained: which young lady would incite that calf love to which he seemed so susceptible? Which young lady would slip the ring in his nose to lead him to the altar of marriage?

Everyone wanted their shot. He was both wealthy and potentially pliable, a winning combination despite his lack of a title. Silly girls might cry that they had hoped for a suitor more in the way of a Corinthian or another variety of cock-sure, but their matronly relatives would be quick to point out that rakes were better admired from afar. The shine dissipated very quickly once a girl found herself entirely dependent on their often thin goodwill. And it could not help but fade completely in the face of their string of affairs frequently paid for with the wronged wives' money.

No, a stupid husband was to be preferred; one that could be managed, and if he were managed well he would never realise it. It gave women a small measure of power in the otherwise subtle slavery of matrimony which could usually only be found aligned to fortune in the old goats trotting toward senility. Darcy was a fine physical specimen, without any known excesses and from a family known to treat their wives with utmost respect and care, and had the added benefit of being incredibly naïve.

So the ladies were thrown at him, wave upon wave of girls: at every event he was utterly inundated. The lesser man they believed him to be may have buckled at such pressure, swiftly choosing a girl of fine enough figure and fat enough dowry merely to halt the onslaught. But the young Mr. Darcy was on a mission, a family mission of long standing: he was there to meet his mate, not to merely pick a bride.

Thus, while he had met each girl with warm anticipation, after a few minutes conversation his smile would often become forced. Those who watched him–and there had been a surfeit of observers–might have fancied they could determine the exact moment when he discovered a lady was not the one for him. When dancing he was prone to stiffening up, his movements, though still elegant, would become inexplicably haughty and he would begin to avoid eye contact.

At the end of the first month, no prospective bride had made it more than a half hour before incurring the disbelieving frown which seemed to grow harsher the longer they detained the Darcy heir. And when the girls eager to become mistress of Pemberley would swipe at each other, a look of wondrous scorn would appear, chased by a thunderous scowl.

Maybe he was not so even tempered nor so tractable after all, but he was still very rich–or rather he would be once his father passed—so the swell of debutantes kept battering the shore of his temper, stripping away the soft sand and exposing his sharp edges.

His mask of hauteur made its debut during his second season and remained largely fixed to his countenance throughout every season thereafter. Perversely, the young things need not be pushed by their guardians anymore; Mr. Darcy was so dark and mysterious, and rich, very rich and growing richer by the minute—if the reports of their fathers and brothers were to be believed... Yes, being Mrs. Darcy would really be something. Worth fighting for? Most assuredly!

The news that he had taken a mistress made a few feet shuffle. It increased his dark aura with the young and foolish. The older ladies might have counselled their charges to caution, but he was engaging in customs in which nearly all men of his class indulged. At least he only had the one paramour, they rationalised. The primary source of their dismay was not the existence of the mistress, but rather the change it wrought in his behaviour. They all noted his increasing absence from those parties which heretofore had given them the slim chance to engage him. And when he did appear, he was brusque and closed off.

The mode of pursuit had to change. Mothers pursed their lips and said that though a scandal was not desirable, it was a tolerable trade-off for such a prize. So the assaults commenced, barely concealed in the undulating tides of eligible ladies. But it was confirmed yet again: Darcy was no simpleton, on the contrary he was an observant and slippery man.

All the attempts fell flat, but his anger spiralled. Other daughters baulked, they did not want such an ill-tempered man in control of their fate; many refused to gratify their guardians' schemes. The braver ones even shirked the chance to be introduced to the young yet forbidding gentleman.

Always hovering on the edge of the ballroom, he looked at everyone in a petticoat as if they were his sworn enemy. One intrepid young lady dared to publicly voice the opinion that she could bring him to heel with her curling blonde locks and sweet, heart-shaped face. Her own father had scoffed. "Darcy? Who only looks at a woman to see a blemish? Your charms will be wasted in that quarter. Look elsewhere, I tell you, sweetling, look elsewhere." Judging by the murmurs of assent that met his statement, and the chorus of nods that met similar protestations all around the city, the men of the older generation had decided Darcy was not worth the effort. Of the women of a similar age, all but the most foolish, desperate, or ambitious agreed. The relentless flow of female pursuit persisted, but though the numbers thinned, the violence of the waves of feminine interest did not permit him to perceive the alteration in the quality of the interest.

Darcy had only the vaguest idea of how he was viewed in years prior, nor could he appreciate the great shock he had provoked when the news of his unorthodox union had finally hit the drawing rooms of the _ton_. He was likewise unaware of the great sensation his uncharacteristic intensity of expression was causing amongst the guests to his aunt's ball.

Oh, he did not smile, or there may have been a handful of guests who would have heaved over and died of shock at such an expression on his face–and at a ball, of all places. But no one could miss the way he watched Mrs. Darcy, with such intensity, almost as if no other woman existed in the room. He did still adopt that thunderous expression he was famous for, but it was not directed at his wife, even once, but was instead directed at any that displeased her, or even appeared likely to attempt to displease her.

The matrons consoled themselves with the knowledge they had done their best, but could not help but bemoan the loss of such a fine marital prospect to an unworthy outsider. The bitterness of the finality and failure was most keenly felt by their girls, most intensely by those approaching the designation of 'on the shelf'. They would not easily forgive, nor could they be trusted to show restraint in dealing with the newcomer who had snatched their prize.

The paternal guardians–excepting those in financial straits–were the least affected, in fact the guests of the male persuasion were on the whole more bemused by the great alteration in their comrade than distressed. A few even harboured a desire to find out what exactly made Mrs. Darcy so special.

Though he was not aware of the exact pattern of his peers' opinions–present or past–Darcy was perceptive enough to pick up on the general tension. It was more than that which was carried by the stream of guests that snaked their way past the receiving line, blithely speculating on or subtly needling the newly minted Mrs. Darcy. The members of his family were universally wound tight also, the degree varying by individual, excepting perhaps Lady Carbeck.

Why her place should be in the receiving line was not entirely clear: Lady Carbeck had lived at Matlock House for but a few short weeks before the family threw over their previous ideals of economy and communicated their intention to terminate the lease on the Viscount's townhouse, forthwith. That the tenants could not be induced to leave early might have been a disaster, but to everyone's surprise Lord Carbeck expressed a firm desire to take his wife on a belated and extended wedding trip to Wales of all places!

What had seemed absurd at the time now made sense to Darcy, in light of recent disclosures. The Viscount's townhouse had been available when a much altered, but in no way subdued, Lady Carbeck had returned with her husband.

Similarly, a failed experiment during the next set of warmer months had seen Lord Carbeck reclaim the house on his estates, not lived in by his father or his father's father, but then, neither of them had ever had such a wife.

Darcy could not deny the ties of family, though Lady Carbeck's actions had cut all chances of genuine familiarity with him and the other Fitzwilliams. The intention may have been to present a totally united front, which would have been beneficial. But why had anyone thought that Lady Carbeck would go along with a plan that provided little to no advantage to her specifically?

She presented like an enemy behind the lines. Her all-pervading bitterness was wielded like a weapon, a subtle stiletto, a slash, a crisp thrust here and a sharp stab there.

"Oh look, here comes Mrs. Ashford. Her eldest daughter was rumoured to be the next Mrs. Darcy in the year seven, but it all came to nothing. I wonder that Miss Ashford has not elected to attend, and yet what would be the point? Six and twenty as she is… a middling fortune is not enough to overcome… six and twenty. Mrs. Ashford is always such a stickler for protocol, I would watch what you say to her." _An exploratory thrust._

"Pray, what is your age, Cousin?" _Elizabeth provided a neat parry_.

"And Lady Decarnett shows her face… she is a brave thing. Do try and make time for her this evening, Mrs. Darcy. She is free with her advice and experienced in the whole gamut of marital ills, most notably she's an expert on how to maintain one's dignity in the face of husbands who stray," Lady Carbeck's stab slid under Elizabeth's guard, her eyes darted to him, the question bleeding out of the dark depths. Darcy's fingers itched to wring the venomous lady's neck, it was not the sort of discussion he wished to have in the entryway, it could do nothing but cause a scene.

Darcy placed a reassuring hand at the small of his wife's back, as he had half a dozen times since this damned event began, her persistent tremble was even more pronounced than before. He barely resisted the urge to curse, and his was not the only stony face that regarded Lady Carbeck with unfriendly eyes. Belatedly, his cousin acted. Darcy watched Lord Carbeck take his wife firmly by the elbow, leading her toward the closed off part of the house.

Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock and Colonel Fitzwilliam all gave an almost synchronised sigh of relief. Darcy knew there would be more mischief to come, likely his wife thought the same, for he could still feel the tension thrumming through her body, vibrating through his glove, into the skin of his hand and settling in his heart. What a miserable start to the ball in her honour, or rather, their honour.

Another large group of guests approached. Darcy edged closer to his wife as Lady Matlock made the introductions, rushing through them, in his opinion. Darcy allowed a frown to descend onto his features. A dozen names rattled off in a span of but a few minutes. Alarming enough, but they had been preceded by another group, and another, and another, and another. All told, over a hundred or so guests had come to accept his aunt's hospitality and pay their respects. And more were arriving every minute, though the flow had dropped off considerably. No wonder Elizabeth was trembling, and as he regarded her face, he realised how pale she had become.

Her suddenly bloodless countenance was indeed the only thing he could fault about her appearance. Her shimmering peacock blue silk gown was exquisite. In keeping with her prior choices in attire, the cut was again simple, but perfectly suited to her dainty figure. It hung gently at this moment, but when she turned, the swaying fabric moved hypnotically, changing shade in ripples as it caught the light, hugging and releasing her frame, giving the observer brief hints of her allure. It was made for a night of dancing.

The print of two stylised peacocks reaching from her hem right up to her neckline were rendered in gold, and mirrored the economy of the cut in their succinct lines. Not cheap, but refined and tasteful.

The greatest surprise was her choice in jewels, though he used the term loosely, as there was not a gem to be seen on his wife.

The night prior Darcy had been denied the chance to make amends. He had been eager to apologise or say anything to ameliorate the hash he had made of his aunt's request, but for the first time in their marriage his wife had not come down for dinner. He had not realised how much he looked forward to the little ritual of their descent until the pattern had been interrupted. White had passed on his wife's regrets along with her excuse of a headache or fatigue—he could not remember which—either case seeming a paper-thin justification for the absence from what was merely a family meal.

His night of disturbed rest had caused him to rise later than his usual wont. Darcy had lingered at the breakfast table in vain, until Soames had taken pity on him and obliquely referenced Mrs. Darcy's schedule for the day, which included an observation on her early breakfast, that preceded intense preparatory activity. A meeting long scheduled had proved resistant to being put off, and when he had become free to seek out his wife, he had been informed she was taking a rest ahead of their long evening. Reasonable, the ball may last all the way to dawn, but nevertheless frustrating; and the other emotion that he had felt—that he was likely hesitant to admit—was loneliness.

After retiring for a brief rest of his own was duly accomplished, but before his valet subjected him to all the primping and nonsense deemed necessary, Darcy had taken care of a small errand. He had made his way to the safe in his study with measured steps, calling for Soames also. He then had opened the heavy metal door and reached behind his stack of ledgers to extract the boxes that had been confined to the safe without variety or excursion for many a year. With trembling fingers, Darcy had even taken a peek at a few and thus found himself surprised at the great gulf between his memories of the Darcy jewels and the reality of the pieces.

They were awful. Reasoning that his love for his mother must have influenced his perception of such things at a young and impressionable age, Darcy had squinted his eyes. Wishing he had taken the time to commission a new setting for the existing gems or a piece from scratch had been pointless at the advanced hour. Acting too quickly for thought, Darcy had scooped up all the pieces, almost dumping them in a tray for Soames.

Another failure for lack of forethought. He had wondered if he would ever get a step ahead of this marriage business and had dearly hoped that she might find something that would not clash too terribly with her chosen gown.

Shock was a term entirely insufficient to describe the surge of feeling he had experienced when she had stepped out. The lady was luck personified: his wife had somehow found a necklace that was perfectly suited to her, her dress and the occasion, in that undeniably hideous collection. Two rows of open beads, handmade out of beaten gold, graced her neck. The larger sections were vaguely suggestive of grape leaves, and the connectors like minuscule ropes. No gems, not a one.

He could not draw from his memory any recollection of the necklace being worn in his presence, it was certainly not his dear departed mother's style. One string hugged the column of her throat quite closely, while the other sat with the low point just underneath her collarbone, leaving the lovely rounded tops of her bosom unhindered.

He had forced his eyes and his mind to divert from that dangerous path, fixing his attention on her earrings, exposed by the Grecian hairstyle she had adopted. A bead each, identical to the ones repeated in the necklace, had been attached to each lobe.

The misunderstandings and missed hours had been heavy between them, as he stood waiting for her to take his arm so they might depart. His natural inclination had been and would always be to retreat within himself, shying away from the uncomfortable. But so much rode on the evening ahead, much more than his family status… maybe even his own personal happiness?

Darcy had drawn her gloved hand to him, tugging her gently closer, and declared that she was beautiful. It was not poetry, would that he could spout nonsense like his cousin James, but he had hoped his heartfelt declaration would not suffer for its lack of alliteration or eloquence. Placing her captive hand flat on his crisp white shirtfront, in the gap afforded by the waistcoat, he had tipped her face up to his using his other hand and beheld her lovely blush. "You are beautiful," he had repeated again, acutely aware of the huskiness of his voice.

He was no less affected now, but warring with his appreciation was his concern. He would not see the cats of the _ton_ humiliate her, not if he could help it.

Taking a visual circuit of the room, and then looping back to the receiving line, he found his aunt looking at him. His worry was mirrored in Lady Matlock's frown. He could detect her lightly tapping her slipper under the veil of her skirts.

"If my guests do not care to be on time, they cannot bemoan that the guests of honour were not present to greet them. Go… mingle… the first dance will begin soon enough. Might I suggest a glass of punch? I will eat my best riding hat if Mrs. Darcy finds herself sitting out even one set," said Lady Matlock, tilting her head in the direction of the ballroom.

Like metal shavings drawn by a magnet, the guests gravitated toward the couple of the hour. They congregated around them, creating a full circle, closing off all avenues of escape. Darcy blinked, nausea swirled around his innards briefly, but he squeezed his wife's hand, now sitting in the crook of his arm, before letting it go. He stepped forward to greet a couple a shade to the right, a General Danett and his wife, Mrs. Danett, clearly enunciating their names as he spoke. A strategically placed hand, once again in the small of her back, drew Elizabeth forward, but the step she took sideways to come closer to his body was all her own doing, and he delighted in it, even under siege as they were.

Great friends that they were of his aunt and uncle's, the General and his wife were largely above the more salubrious gossip of the _ton_ , and thus provided a few moments of non-threatening inanities before their inherent good manners prompted them to move on and allow other guests the opportunity to engage.

The pleasant discourse was not to last, naturally. There were too many with a score to settle–real or imagined—to truly pass an evening in 'pleasant' conversation. He would like to think he shielded her from the worst barbs and prevented those he could with his trademark scowl.

He took a moment to be surprised at the enmity from unexpected quarters. One of Colonel Fitzwilliam's friends from University approached, a cheerful amiable fellow much in the pattern of Bingley, though from a family with a sight more history. He greeted them with predictable enthusiasm, but the wife, whom Darcy had never met before, regarded Elizabeth coolly, nodding her acknowledgement but looking like she had sniffed scat all the while. Before Darcy could make heads or tails of the business, the next group had stepped forward, followed by another and then another.

The faces changed, the words exchanged varied, but his wife's expression was unfailingly polite. The other constant was his hand that remained, pressed against the silk of her gown, a symbol of possession, an act of reassurance for them both, and a simple pleasure that girded him against the swell of humanity.

He waited for re-enforcements in the form of his family to appear, but the personage who sidled up to his wife was the very last he would have had respond to his subconscious plea.

Lady Carbeck's unctuous smile was completely at odds with her increasingly cutting words, which baited some guests but unfailingly sought to needle his wife.

Throwing in commentary on Mrs. Darcy's origin, tinged with disdain, Lady Carbeck addressed one lady. "Miss Elspeth, please come and make our lovely newlywed feel more at home. Mrs. Darcy, Miss Elspeth hails from a small farming estate, you must talk about cows or chickens or some such," she tittered before addressing Miss Elspeth again. "Though she is married and you are… not, I daresay you could still be charming friends."

"I would hardly call Fenwick Hall a farm," Miss Elspeth replied through gritted teeth, her hard expression extending to encompass Elizabeth as well.

A number of encounters along a similar vein followed, though the specific brand of discord sown was unique to each guest. A flush of impending doom spread across Elizabeth's countenance and across the top her cleavage, enticing surely, but also alarming.

As richly as Lady Carbeck deserved a set down–for she seemed to be affected not a whit from her husband's recent scolding–Darcy weighed the natural justice of the situation versus the lasting effects allowing a scene might cause. He had been on the receiving end of his wife's temper more than a few times and did not see such an outburst as raising her in the estimation of his peers. How to prevent it though? Another delicate mental calculation balanced the threat of leaving Elizabeth unattended versus allowing Lady Carbeck to persist. Loath as he was to admit such, removing Lady Carbeck from his wife's vicinity seemed the only viable option, nay, an absolute necessity.

A young man swarmed up to reserve a set with Mrs. Darcy. The way he lingered over her hand was vexing, but not as vexing as the comment Lady Carbeck made immediately following. "Fear not, you may be the exotic bird of paradise now, but give it a week and a handful of appearances and you will fade into the insignificance that is your due," she said with a superior smile.

To the casual observer it would appear the barb had no effect on Elizabeth, but Darcy could see the sudden stillness that overtook his wife's frame. _Enough_. A measured breath calmed his own swell of antagonism, so it was with threadbare composure that Darcy stepped behind his wife and firmly gripped Lady Carbeck's elbow. The harridan tried to shake his hold through his mumbled apology and half-baked explanation, but he was not to be put off, in essence dragging her to the far side of the ballroom and into a short hallway.

Intentionally blocking her view of the guests with his broad back, Darcy hissed, "I shall not tolerate you harassing my wife in such a manner, nor will I stand idly by while you pour poison into the ears of –"

"And what, pray, can you do to stop me?" Lady Carbeck interrupted, her chin set in an unbecoming, belligerent angle. "Short of beating me or confining me, I think you would not be able to hamper me, and we both know you would not stoop to such brutish methods."

Darcy glanced over his shoulder. "I might appeal to your better nature, but I strongly suspect I would be wasting my breath. Instead I shall word an entreaty to your self-interested black little soul. You are a hair's breadth from losing everything that is important to you. Your husband, who is inexplicably fond of my wife, has reached the end of his patience. Continue along this vein and you shall tumble into the precipice—"

"Empty threats," she said. "You know nothing of me and my marriage."

Darcy stepped closer. Lady Carbeck stepped back immediately, making a lie of her bravado.

"Are a few petty attacks on my wife's character worth risking your access to your child?"

He would not lie to himself, there was a sense of satisfaction that flowed from watching her eyes widen and her hand involuntarily fly to her chest. Capitalising on the moment, Darcy allowed a smirk to turn up the corners of his lips. "Do we understand each other?"

She nodded, though her expression was dazed, with her brows drawn together and lips pursed. Appeased, for now, Darcy made his way back towards his wife.

It was not difficult to discern her location, though getting a glimpse of his petite spouse was not so easy. She stood at the epicentre of a crush of male attention. Her face was briefly visible while one fop bowed over her hand, at the same moment another shifted sideways. A prickling sensation made its way up Darcy's back and he quickened his pace. Stepping between the men, and perhaps on a few toes, Darcy advanced. The milling crowd shifted again, providing him a point of entry and a clear view of Lord Matlock at her side.

The background droning of the musicians warming up noticeably developed more purpose. A few stuttering bars of a minuet sounded, prompting Darcy to offer his hand. "Would you do me the honour of dancing the first with me, Mrs. Darcy?"

He watched her angle her body, lifting one shoulder playfully. Elizabeth's brow arched as she pretended to consider the question, before a cheeky smile puckered her lips. "I would be delighted."

She looked down from the leading position as the dance assembled, and he thought she might have swallowed heavily as she stepped into formation, but once the couples lined up and the music started in earnest, she gave every appearance of being delighted.

His wife moved through the transitions of the opening of the cotillion with confidence, though he could not describe her dancing style as elegant. Her dancing was spirited, agile, and there was just something so impish in the way she moved. Those ladies who glided through the movements, like swans floating effortlessly on a smooth lake, rich in ennui, were just so lacklustre against his lively wife.

While other ladies' gloved hands might sit in his own grasp limply, Elizabeth's exerted a gentle return pressure as the dance allowed, and when her fingers slipped around within his palm as she twirled in time, he could almost feel sparks shooting up his arm and quickening his pulse.

She was so radiant in motion, her eyes sparkled and her smile bespoke genuine happiness. He would have liked to see her like this more often, mayhap she had been lacking in avenues for exercising her pure animal spirits, confined as she was at Darcy house. The thought could not help but trigger a memory of Elizabeth's wild youngest sister, but where Lydia Bennet was all crass self-indulgence without awareness, shaking everyone around her in her relentless pursuit of pleasure, Elizabeth's exquisite joy in the dance did not affront, but drew everyone who watched her into her gentle enjoyment. His wife's enjoyment was not harsh, but pleasant to behold, like dappled sunlight dancing through the trees.

"Have I not been exercising you enough, my dear?" he asked when the dance drew them together once more. Her step faltered for the briefest fraction of a second in the spin, but his hand behind her back kept her steady. Her look was incredulous and there was a hint of rose to her cheeks, and then she was swept away with the next partner in their grouping.

When at length she returned to him, her lips were turned up in a very sly smile. "Far be it from me to criticise the frequency of _our exercise_ ," she said.

Her comment shot straight to his groin, accompanied as the statement was by her lifting her arms over her head to facilitate his spin, which pushed her stays up and thus her ripe bosom. It was his turn to blush as she skipped to the centre.

"I did not… that is, I was… I would not," he stuttered, missing his next step.

"Oh dear," she said, "I think it is you who has neglected their exercise. Done in at one dance! _You_ ought to spend less time in your study."

"Is that an invitation?"

"No."

And with that rather abrupt reply–albeit softened by her cheeky smile–the music of the first dance was closed off with flourish.

Was she flirting with him? His hopes of a second dance, more sedate and less intricate, seemed to have been fulfilled when the musicians commenced a triple minor, but it became apparent this was one of the new dances, "Lord Something-or-Rather's Whim", he half remembered. To his disappointment, his steps required his concentration almost exclusively, precluding him from pursuing the intriguing discourse he had inadvertently started with his spouse.

His wife seemed much subdued as they led the couples through the first sequence, still proficient, but the sparkle seemed to be hidden or maybe absent. On the subsequent switch, her face split into a beatific smile, obviously at something her swain of a partner had said. The fire that flared in Darcy's stomach almost brought him to a halt.

"Might you consider making conversation with _me_?" he asked during a tight turning pattern.

She cocked her head to the side, in a movement a bit counter-intuitive to the direction of the dance. Her brow was furrowed also, her brief smile run away again. "My apologies for neglecting you… I find that this dance is very different in person than it is on the page. I will own translating the written instructions to actual physical steps across the floor soaked up all of my concentration."

He winced at his own utter obtuseness. The pattern took them apart again. "I ought to apologise, I did not consider—"

"What do you wish to speak of?" she enquired lightly, executing an equally light turn.

"Books?"

She laughed. "I spend hours each day haunting the library like some lonesome spectre, but now in the ballroom you wish to talk of books? I could not possibly do 'books' justice in such a setting, choose again."

"We could address how very well you look this evening, but I am afraid, much in the way of books, I could not do the topic of your astounding beauty justice."

"Why Mr. Darcy, are you flirting with me?"

"Attempting to, I cannot be sure of my success. I have never been obliged to flirt before," he said.

The following separation required by the dance was, to his mind, terrible. Immediately after he had uttered the last, her enchanting smile became brittle. Her movements that had grown into an increasingly carefree fluidity, as her confidence with the dance increased, were again tinged with a stiffness, for all they were still precise and in time.

Too soon the dance was finished and he led her off the floor. He attempted to push through the loitering guests, searching for a modicum of privacy. It was slow going, peppered with polite interruptions, and the barely sheltered gap between two potted palms was hardly the seclusion he sought.

"If you require something of me, I would prefer it if you asked me plainly and not resort to subterfuge and false flattery," she said immediately and quietly.

Darcy, cognisant of the many eyes that must be on them, pulled her close and lowered his lips to the shell of her ear. "My flattery was not false, neither was my enjoyment of our set. _I would prefer it_ if you tried to give me the benefit of the doubt," he said in a low voice.

She shivered and he unthinkingly leant into her hair, breathing in her intoxicating scent. "Elizabeth, I have never –"

"Mrs. Darcy, they are forming the set."

Darcy felt his face heat with a combination of choler, chagrin, and a further pinch of something that might have been jealousy.

"Rutherford." Darcy nodded, stepping back. He was not the worst sort, cold comfort though it was. Elizabeth placed her gloved hand in the young gentleman's waiting one.

So went the next few hours, surrendering his wife to various members of his aunt's circle, even if only for the span of two dances. Depending on the moral pedigree of her partners, Darcy alternated between grinding his teeth, twisting his signet ring, or rapidly and persistently tapping his leg.

He constantly watched her, how could he not? She was so vibrant and beautiful as she weaved in and out of the dancers. How could he bring himself to look away? Even as socially oblivious as he was prone to be, with his prize the focus of the subtle currents of interest from unsavoury or opportunist corners, the shifting tensions became as apparent as signs in large bold print. Maybe he looked like a lovesick fool, circling the ballroom, riveted on his wife, but it lent truth to their story. 'Silver linings and all that rot,' he told himself to ameliorate what might become an obsession, if he let it.

His visual stalking and familiarity with the dances allowed him to position himself near to where she finished each set, and his scorching scowl ensured that the temporary custodians returned Elizabeth to him rather than lead her off. Her shoulders would drop a fraction of an inch when her hand was relinquished into Darcy's care again. He could almost imagine her exhales constituted small sighs of relief, when she was once again where she belonged, by his side. There was no mistaking her appreciation for him when twice he waited for her with a ready glass of punch. She happily accepted his comfort and the restorative, and he obliged her by carrying the conversation with those who approached with more belated congratulations, taking great care to pronounce their names clearly and as often as he could without sounding completely daft.

All too soon she was taken from him, and the whole process would begin anew.

"I would congratulate you on your nuptials, but if your much altered state of behaviour is anything to go by, I should instead offer my sympathies. It is abundantly clear that Mrs. Darcy has you by the cods, friend," said a smug voice just behind his left ear.

Darcy checked the progress of Elizabeth's coupling with the innocuous Mr. Greene before turning to the owner of the obnoxious voice and the similarly obnoxious sentiment. "Braithwaite, no one shot you dead yet? Has it been a slow season?"

His unwelcome companion playfully nudged Darcy with a familiarity he felt was unwarranted, due to the heretofore rather sporadic nature of their acquaintance.

"I'd rather be shot by a pistol than Cupid's arrow, if you please," retorted Braithwaite laconically.

Darcy and the Viscount had oft frequented the same events, not out of a mutual desire for each other's company, but rather because of their status as sought after bachelors. Heir to an Earldom and handsome as the devil himself, Lord Braithwaite's title–and future title–meant he was forgiven many sins, his less than stellar financial credentials for one, and his long, sordid list of affairs for another.

That the lord had made it to five and thirty without tying the knot, despite both of his parents being alive and strongly pressing for him to start his nursery for ten years at least, was quite a feat.

"Your father may just shoot you if you do not get about the business of matrimony soon. An heir with two brothers can never truly rest easy," was Darcy's reply, before he turned his face back to the ballroom, catching sight of his wife and feeling a little bit of the pinch loosen from his chest.

When the lord stepped up beside him, Darcy regarded him out of the corner of his eye, as the man sipped from a very generously filled glass of brandy. "As much as I hate to admit it, you have called the flag perfectly. I must either hoist the banner of matrimony or concede defeat and a severe curtailment to my standard of living."

"Do you have anyone in mind?" asked Darcy.

"Ha, you know the script. The incomparables are all but spoken for before they even set their first slippered toe in the ballroom. Those with the fattest dowries go next, until we are left with the dregs. I'll admit there are a few I would tumble, but none that I would wish to eat breakfast across from every morning."

Darcy raised his eyebrows. "Every morning? I doubt that would be a problem. Could the holy institution of matrimony be sufficient to bring about your reform? I suspect you would still spend more nights abroad than in your own bed, wedding band notwithstanding."

"My thoughts too, and yet if marriage has wrought such a drastic change in you, should I risk my rapscallion self to its tender mercies? Will I find myself stalking the side-lines of a dance like some _Ben_ once I say my vows?"

Darcy merely shrugged.

"Maybe I should follow your example, forego the flush dowry and net myself a comely country girl. I would wager keeping hours at your house is no great chore, am I right?"

Though Darcy gave no encouragement, the loquacious lord seemed to need none to continue, making Darcy suspect he was more than halfway to being foxed already.

"Mrs. Darcy hails from the South, I believe?"

"Yes, Hertfordshire," replied Darcy.

"Oh ho! So I have a hand in the taming of the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, a tale I shall save for my grandchildren, to be sure. How did you find Netherfield?... I must say I would have expected your red-headed friend as being more the type to be ensnared by one of the local wildflowers, but then again, they certainly breed them differently around there."

"I did not know you spent much time at Netherfield," said Darcy, steering the conversation into safer waters.

"I cannot remember when I was last there, before my majority I think. To Aunt Margaret, I was ever a pane of glass, and my transparency, or her perception, ruined all my fun and thus the appeal of visits waned. No, it was Marcus who spent the most time in that social wasteland, though even his visits were sporadic and short. I was nearly dispatched there oh… it must have been two years ago now. Dear Aunty was very close to cocking her toes, so Marcus was hovering over his potential inheritance like a dragon over his hoard, and then starts writing home some romantic nonsense.

"The consensus was that he was fixing to tup some tradesman's daughter or serving girl, but then he writes about Gran's engagement ring, which naturally spurred my father into action. I was recalled express from a bang up party just south of Chesterfield. A total waste, I don't mind telling you. I barely trot into London and dear Papa tells me the silly girl refused him! Can you believe? Poor as a church mouse and yet she still wouldn't have him." Lord Braithwaite laughed.

"I would have had ammunition for years," he continued smugly, "But the crossed lover transferred his commission to the front and ran off to face the French rather than his humiliation. Wait until you see him, he has a scar now, and a beard. All the pretty birds of high and low repute go wild for him. They do love a tortured soul." He finished his little speech with an insufferable sigh.

"Well I guess his sorrow is Bingley's gain. Netherfield provided an excellent introduction to land ownership," said Darcy neutrally.

"Provided? So Bingley will not purchase then? I suspected as much when I ran into him and that vulpine sister of his. Come to think of it, he was a bit long in the face; perhaps the country air agreed with him better?"

"His plans are not yet settled, I believe."

Darcy's eyes raked the ballroom in sudden urgency, he could not see Elizabeth; worse, he had lost count of the dance. His attention was caught by a knot of young men dallying just past the entrance of the cardroom, a less than neat little array of just the wrong sort. Some were talking, others were silent, some were drinking, others stood with hands empty, but they all gazed in the same direction. He followed the trajectory of their stares and finally located his wife. Darcy opened his mouth to make his excuses, and realised his companion was observing the same group, but while Darcy felt consternation at their ill-disguised admiration, Lord Braithwaite's lips were curled in amusement.

"There is a wisdom in the path you have chosen, I suppose," said the lord, and his tongue came out to wet his lips briefly. "I might not be so adverse to the married state if I had met such a woman, fortune notwithstanding."

The lewd implication was readily discernible to Darcy, but he could not throttle the man on so slight a provocation, as much as he would have liked to wrap his fingers around the meaty neck of the blackguard.

"Yes, well, there are not many of her ilk, and if I understand you correctly, you do not have the time for a search. Pray tell me, when am I to wish you joy on whatever horse-faced heiress you and your dear parents compromise on?"

The man scoffed again. "When is your sister due to make her bow?"

"As soon as you are safely married to someone else," Darcy replied crisply, allowing his animosity a bit of rein, before softening. "If you are so against the state, why marry? Couldn't a nephew inherit?"

Lord Braithwaite lifted and dropped his shoulders, holding out his free hand palm up. "If there were such a nephew, I would consider the idea."

Darcy felt his eyebrows lift again. Lord Braithwaite's next brother in age had married exceedingly young, if he remembered correctly. "Does Mrs. Dymond throw girls?" asked Darcy.

"She doesn't throw anything it seems. A decade, and nothing."

"I am sorry."

Another shrug was offered. "Don't be. They do not appear to be. The pair of them seem to take on all the urchins within my brother's parish as if the tiny miscreants were their own. Nauseatingly happy, they are." Darcy thought there was an edge of bitterness in that last statement.

"And I do still have one unattached brother," Lord Braithwaite said with a sly smile. "I called in some favours and secured him an extended leave with the option of a training post just outside of Town. I will endeavour to throw every lovely young thing available his way in the hopes that something may stick. He takes no enjoyment in bachelorhood anymore, if you take my meaning, so he might as well be married, producing the heir I would rather not."

Darcy watched the man drain the rest of his glass in a large gulp. "Might I bring him to call on your lovely wife, and see how your sister has grown?"

"No."

The music had stopped, and Mr. Greene was leading Elizabeth toward the gaggle of rakes instead of where he ought. "Please excuse me," said Darcy, hurriedly making his way through the increasing crush, hoping to intercept the couple.

He was too late. Lord Carbeck was handing his wife a glass of punch and touching her arm in a lingering manner that made Darcy's blood boil. But when Elizabeth noticed his approach, he saw her lips part slightly before they united again in an understated, yet pleased smile.

"And here comes your own personal kill-joy, fair one," said Lord Carbeck in a stage whisper. Darcy nodded gravely to the other men in their little clutch and granted his cousin both a nod and a scowl.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "You must surely be more than half-sprung if you are calling me fair."

"I am not so foxed as to relinquish my much anticipated dance, if that is what you are inferring. Especially as it entitles me to your exquisite company for the duration of our supper."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, my Lord, but I cannot oblige you in this dance."

"Why the devil not?"

Darcy watched her edge away from her companion. She somehow managed to make the defection look natural as she inched to his side. A claim to the dance, false though it would have been, was on the tip of his tongue, but as if reading his intent, Elizabeth gave a tiny shake of her head. His jaw clenched down on the words.

"The dance is spoken for," she replied firmly, "By the very finest of men. I shall not throw him over."

Lord Carbeck's eyes narrowed, though his mouth was slanted in a smirk rather than displeasure. "Darcy, still unwilling to share, tut tut tut. You have had your bride sequestered for over a month, surely you can spare her for the span of two dances?" his cousin said, fixing on Elizabeth with the last.

At that moment a fourth and well known personage made his way into the conversation. "Son, trying to steal dances? I know your mother taught you better manners than that," said Lord Matlock, his eyes sparkling, though Darcy thought he perceived a hint of steel in the older gentleman's tone.

"Damn and blast, well played, my lady! The one man I cannot challenge to a duel over thee, lest I be accused of avarice and patricide. So I shall accept your defection with grace, if you will but grant me a small forfeit."

Darcy could not help rolling his eyes, his cousin would be ridiculous and he thought his language a little coarse for a ballroom and particularly unsuited for a lady's ears.

"A very small forfeit then," replied Elizabeth.

"My choice of dances at the upcoming Killcott ball?"

She sighed, but acquiesced, before being swept off to the dance floor.

The supper that followed was surprisingly pleasant, seated as Darcy was next to his radiant wife, and surrounded by his family. Lord Carbeck had thankfully taken Lady Carbeck off somewhere else for another much needed remonstration.

Darcy put together a selection of foods for his aunt and another for his wife, keeping the choices light as was her preference. His efforts were rewarded with another warm smile. More fond looks had been exchanged this evening than perhaps in all the weeks of their marriage to date. He dared to hope it was more than merely an act. The Colonel did the same service for Lady Matlock's niece, who also sat with them.

Lord Matlock made a very pretty speech about his great joy in adding another member to the family, which caused Elizabeth to blush even more prettily under the attention.

Elizabeth was supremely poised when she succumbed to the calls for her to grace the company with a song. The piece was less provocative than that which she had played for the Bingleys, but no less haunting. This time she sung in Italian. A visual survey of the crowd showed many expressions of surprise at her graceful musicality. To Darcy's dismay, her eloquent expression of longing and love lost did trigger some speculative looks from masculine quarters. But more importantly, no one spoke over her performance, much more telling than applause, which was often faked to ingratiate. Nevertheless, the applause was also effusive.

Naturally, demands for an encore were elegantly declined in favour of giving other—unmarried—ladies the opportunity to play. It could not mollify her harshest critics, but might sway a small few.

Darcy escorted her from the piano and quietly congratulated her on the spellbinding performance. If there was a wry shade to her answering smile, he could overlook it. Any censure was deserved, but she was generous enough to allow him to briefly squeeze her hand beneath the table without pulling away.

He was loath to part with Elizabeth when the dancing started up once more, and if the way she clung to his arm or the slight quiver in her frame were anything to go by, she wanted to stay close also. But a pre-arranged partner arrived to claim her, and Lady Matlock pointedly reminded him of his promise to dance with someone other than his wife. As a result, Darcy found himself being led quite reluctantly to a Mrs. Crosby.

He thanked his lucky stars that it was not a young maiden that he was asked to do the pretty with, and she seemed a sensible enough girl. Pretty in the way of a water colour painting, all a soft blending of soft colours.

Mrs. Crosby asked polite questions about his recent marriage, and answered his own enquiries with a courteous indifference. Her husband was in the Navy, she lived in town, she enjoyed the season. The dance passed, but though it caused him no great pain, he did not derive much enjoyment either.

When the last bars sounded and he had made his bow, Darcy's first inclination was to lead his partner over to where Elizabeth was, alarmingly, surrounded by a new wave of guests and with nary an ally in sight. But Mrs. Crosby resisted with a tug of her hand. "Mr. Darcy, you must remember my sister, Mrs. Applebee, or Miss Hallet as was."

He made a bow, though he could not vouch for the steadiness of the movement. Here stood before him a woman who had attempted to force his hand into matrimony through guile, brazenly helping herself to his aunt's hospitality and partaking of amusements designed to celebrate one she had endeavoured to use so ill.

The idea of making small talk with one such as she was abhorrent to him, but nevertheless he enquired, "I did not meet your husband earlier, a Mr. Applebee, was it?"

She shrugged in a manner that made his hackles rise. "Nor are you likely to. My husband passed the summer before last. I miss his company terribly."

Darcy scratched at his jaw, and raised an eyebrow but could not readily think of anything to say to such a disingenuous declaration. His manners took over. "I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she replied at length.

He fidgeted, as she eyed him in a way that could not be mistaken. Another gentleman approached her sister, leading Mrs. Crosby to the slowly forming set.

The look became more pointed. What would be the price of cutting her? His face felt heated. "Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She simulated surprise. Though her delight was sincere, the calculation he read in her eyes was… disturbing.

He maintained a stoic silence throughout the first set, the patterns were more distant but in the second she flirted with him, most blatantly. As they made their way up the line, he felt the crawling sensation of many eyes upon him.

The whisperers would say, 'barely married and already courting the favour of a young widow'. He answered the woman as curtly as was possible and more abruptly than was polite, much like he had back when she was a maiden, but also like back then, she would not be put off.

At the end of the set, Mrs. Applebee begged refreshment. While Darcy anxiously stood separated from Elizabeth by a sea of people, his chest constricted. But in a move no doubt calculated to overthrow all previous conceptions, aid arrived in the form of his titled cousin.

Lord Carbeck manoeuvred his way between two guests, deftly twisting his shoulders to avoid spilling the drink he carried. Darcy expected him to move on, maybe with a sneer or wink, but the man halted before them, proffering a deep bow and beverage to the sly widow.

"Mrs. Applebee, it has been too long. Might I humbly offer you some refreshment? Carrying the entirety of the conversation for two long dances must have left you exceptionally parched."

The young widow seemed to weigh the Viscount's words; she cast a sidelong glance at Darcy before licking her lips, then affected a wide smile. "I thank you, my Lord."

She dropped Darcy's arm to take the glass and struck up a heavily flirtatious discussion with his cousin. When Darcy made his excuses she waved an airy farewell, while Lord Carbeck gave him a wink.

That he was not quick enough to catch Elizabeth before she was again led to the dance floor was no surprise, but he was content to watch her and wait for the set to end. Elizabeth returned to him, and again after the next.

To his eye her movements seemed unchanged, but there was something in her air that indicated a deep seated exhaustion, and when he took her hand, it sat limply within his own. Her shoulders seemed to drop a touch when the couples began to once again form.

"Would you prefer to sit this one out?" Darcy whispered, leaning close.

When she looked up, she tilted her head to the side, one curl tickled an exposed shoulder. Her eyes cut to the dance floor and back at him, her gaze searching.

"It is not a test Elizabeth, there is no shame in admitting fatigue and no harm in pleading the same."

"Can you be sure?"

He surprised himself by laughing. "We could leave now if you chose, we are newlyweds after all. A bit of insular fascination is quite expected. Would you like to go?"

He watched her nod her head, but her brow was furrowed. He held his breath.

"I think I would dance one more and then–and only if it would not cause offence–I would like to leave," she said looking ahead.

Her stately partner, a man who was somewhere in years between himself and Lord Matlock, approached. Darcy leant down, his lips almost touching her hair and that one enticing curl, which smelt of honeysuckle. The soft fragrance was like an oasis in the room full of cloying scents. "I will call the carriage and be waiting for you."

She shivered, then nodded minutely as his hand slipped from her back.

Of course their departure could not be executed with anything resembling haste. There were the tedious rounds of goodbyes, the hosts obviously, but there were a great many 'friends' who wanted to give their congratulations a final time and those that did it repeatedly.

Darcy breathed an audible sigh of relief upon attaining the exit and seeing the familiar family conveyance awaiting their pleasure. The sand over the icy steps reduced the likelihood of mishap, but nevertheless, he pulled her tight to him to assist her down the stairs, and tucked her cloak tighter around her slight frame before helping her up into the carriage.

Choosing to sit beside rather than across from his wife, he lightly shook a travel blanket before draping it across her lap.

He found her eyes sparkling. "It was a ball, not the Battle of Towton. This coddling is excessive and unnecessary."

He pulled the corner of the heavy rug over his own rapidly cooling legs. Darcy was saddened to see her stiffen when the movement brought their thighs into contact. "The great contrast between a heated ballroom and chilly carriage is a key ingredient to catching a chill." He paused. "And though there may have been a notable lack of swords and spears, I would not say our evening was not a battle… in many ways. A battle in which we both emerged victorious."

"Victorious you say? I spent half the night shaking like a leaf and not from the ambient temperature," she quipped.

"I know, but I do not believe anyone else did. You were the picture of confidence. I found myself very proud of you." He winced on the last. He had not intended to sound so… condescending?

"Thank you," she replied quietly. She paused, wetting her pert lips with a quick swipe of her tongue. A rut in the road jostled the carriage. "For more than the compliment… I appreciated your attentiveness, your support. I thought my head might crack, trying to stuff all those names and titles into it. And the dancing…"

He waited for more. "Do you not enjoy dancing?"

Her head turned his way, but in the shadow he could not begin to read her countenance. "As much as the next person," she said. "But trying to apply what you have mostly read or observed into your own fast paced steps tends to leech the enjoyment out of the activity."

He was reminded of her statement during the set they had shared and wondered how many of the dances she had struggled through.

"I confess… I had not thought… Did you keep much company whilst under your uncle's care?" he asked.

He cursed the darkness. He could not see her expressive eyes, or much of her face at all, but a tension had entered the carriage. "I can imagine the events you attended were much different, more along—" he continued, but was halted by her small hand on his upper arm. Her fingers compressed his muscle, not in a painful way, but the contact was firm.

"Please don't say anything rude or condescending," she whispered. "I have enjoyed my night, you were everything I would wish you to be… please do not ruin it now with a thoughtless statement. I would like to retire tonight… thinking well of you."

His stomach fluttered. He was suddenly very glad of the concealing darkness, for the burning on his cheeks suggested he was sporting a most unmanly blush. He swallowed.

The carriage slid slightly on the ice, before the pace slowed considerably. Leaning forwards, even though the lightly frosted window Darcy could tell they were still some streets from home.

When he returned to his former position, Elizabeth rested her head on the side of his shoulder. The move scattered his wits. Was her shift motivated by affection or complete exhaustion? When after a handful of shallow breaths she had not moved, he ventured to pull her head further across to his chest and wrap his arm around her shoulders.

She stiffened immediately. He held his breath. His vision was almost swimming by the time she finally relaxed into his one-armed embrace.

"What was your victory?" she asked some time later.

"Pardon?" he asked, jolted out of his peaceful contentment.

"You said that we both emerged victorious…?"

"Oh, that," he said. Her expectation was heavy in the air. "I did not throttle even one of your dance partners."

She laughed, and he could not deny it might be wishful thinking, but he believed she might have snuggled into him just a shade more. He kissed the top of her head, the lightest of kisses, but did not push any further. The change was already remarkable, he dared not hope for the miraculous.

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 **Is it enough? Will it last? Please feed me reviews: praise, constructive criticism and intense speculation. All are welcome.**

 **P.S. Dear Husband contributed a dozen or so dinners towards the writing of this long chapter.**


	13. Love In The Saloon

**A/N: I could write about all the reasons why this chapter was delayed, but writing it would be as boring as living it. All I can say is that I am sorry, and that being a wife, and a Mum often means that your time is not your own.**

 _Copyright © 2017 Felice B. This story, the author notes and comments are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned._

 **I have some very special Beta love for Lenniee (you are so damn thorough), Skydreamer (even though you took away some of my favourite words!), Primprenelle (so much dedication), Dr. Breifs Cat (yikes that will could have been a mess without your timely advice), and the lovely Miss Phryne Fisher (who also stole words. Damn etymology sucks sometimes).**

 **Please leave reviews, I love them so.**

* * *

The weather had turned and yet his home was full.

The combination of ubiquitous estate concerns and the unrelenting social invasion meant Darcy had not found the chance to take his wife up on her invitation to the library, ostensibly to discuss books, although he harboured a distant hope that her offer could encompass… _more_?

Snow had proved to be no impediment to the callers. The sleety rain did affect a moderate drop in the number of visitors, even if it had not been sufficient to halt them altogether.

One could never fully trust in the veracity of recollections from childhood, but Darcy was certain that his townhouse had never been so… busy.

Darcy drummed his fingers on the highly polished surface of his desk. He stilled the digits, lifting his chin a little and also moving forward in his chair, straining his ears. The murmur of voices was below the requisite range to identify specific individuals, let alone the words they spoke, but still, even just knowing they were there… he could not concentrate. He ought to give up, give in to temptation.

Yes, there was a glut of company, as there had been yesterday, the day before that and the day before that. Darcy had naturally anticipated a degree of interest to carry over from his aunt's ball. Whether innocent curiosity or more nefarious intrusiveness, a mere evening out would not be sufficient to weigh and measure the new member to their rather inbred society, or subtly express their concern—or rather _disapproval_ —at his marrying outside the ranks.

So it had been with no surprise, but equally no genuine welcome, that the crossed young ladies and their flinty eyed mothers were admitted. A provocatively shallow bow accompanied by a twitching jaw had greeted the numerous swains who availed themselves of his hospitality. Reluctant but unwilling to make a scene, Darcy had also observed the requisite social niceties with the true wolves who dared encroach upon his domain, but even a simpleton could have detected more steel than warmth in his words. He would sooner eject the predators from his home than watch his wife serve them tea, while their eyes crawled all over her body, a body that he had not enjoyed following the ball, nor the many nights that had passed since.

A twinge of pain drew his attention to his hand, clenched around the ornate handle of his letter opener. He dropped it onto the desk with a clatter and idly massaged his abused palm.

 _They came, they drank tea, they traded thinly veiled insults and presumably told their friends, and thus the process began anew._ The whole of the _ton_ seemed to be cycling through his previously quiet drawing room, monopolising the attention of his formerly idle wife.

Elizabeth, far from objecting, continued to be all graciousness and elegance itself… beautiful too. What she had never been, however, was naïve enough to take any protestations of friendship or affection at face value. Nor was she inclined to credit the guests with any benign motives without further observation. He had watched her watch their guests with her lips curled in a warm smile, but her eyes had been quietly wary, ever searching.

These already fraught interactions had become further complicated by the arrival of her own… for lack of a better word... ' _people'_. A strange, motley, and yet engaging crew.

Darcy had engaged in enough introspection in days recent to acknowledge—if not justify—his feelings of superiority over his wife's situation and likely connections.

Moving as she had in the confined society of her locale, it was not unreasonable to surmise that her intimates would come from that same restricted group—for which he had no respect or liking. And yet, he often felt something akin to a mental itch, uncomfortable and yet not entirely tangible. The little he had come to know of his wife did not support the notion of her being happy or inclined to pursue intimacy with the simple—oft times uncouth—people who surrounded her home. Nor could he imagine her growing into the woman she was with their ilk as her examples of breeding.

He had had some vague idea of her spending some time with her aunt and uncle, lately of London—though not in the best neighbourhood. It would follow that she would have a London circle, and this circle, in proximity to their life at present, might not be so easily avoided, nor dismissed.

He had imagined the town equivalent of the Meryton crowd, but her London friends, as it happened, had turned out to be a very different kettle of fish.

They were on the balance educated, cultured and a vastly more intelligent bunch than perhaps even those Darcy counted among his own close acquaintance. Artists, authors, musicians, and—to Darcy's great alarm—a peppering of political agitators, these were his wife's friends. They boldly rubbed shoulders with the cream of the _ton,_ and for all they lacked in elegance or quality of dress, they more than made up for in rich, scintillating conversation, the like he had not engaged in since his university days.

They had not troubled themselves to court Darcy's good opinion beyond showing good—even impeccable—manners, which he found a novel and comfortable development. There might be a vague and half-formed idea in some that they might like his patronage, but at the same time none seemed inclined to belabour the point. And he estimated that even if they had, they would not be asking more than he could give.

A subtle rope of tension that he seemed to carry into most interactions had unravelled when he had been in their company. He had not found himself fighting the urge to cross his arms. His neck could sit naturally, absent its habitual tension. His thoughts had flowed into words almost effortlessly and he had found himself thoroughly enjoying discussions that often edged into arguments, many of which they—not he—had come off the victor.

He was not the only one who revelled in the eclectic mix of company. Against such minds, Mrs. Darcy's own keen intellect shone.

As for the rest… it should have been an unmitigated disaster, the combination of creatives with the excessively critical London elite. And yet, like a master painter with his colours in oils, his wife had a way of combining personalities, forming little coteries of conversation. In addition, her deft hand directed their discourse in a way to gratify those parties concerned, or in some cases no-one but herself.

The unattached ladies were intentionally paired with the omnipresent single men. A masterful move; blunting any hatred of the ladies, their mothers' also, and directing the superfluous flirtation of her male admirers down a potentially more constructive course. To these couplings she might add others, one of her outsiders, to gently prod them out of the well-trodden and uninspired pattern of their usual interactions.

He had observed Elizabeth, with an impish grin and a highly suspect spring in her step, direct her politically minded callers to take a seat with a reluctant coxcomb and then proceed to lead over a mulish girl to round out the tableau. The discussions could not help but become heated; however, he noted Elizabeth always intervened if they appeared to venture into the prelude to explosive. Darcy had shaken his head on seeing couples who had entered their drawing room inexorably set against each other leave loose allies. It was truly astounding, what the introduction of a common enemy could do.

Would Mrs. Darcy be credited with a rash of marriages over the coming months? It was possible, and in terms of her social standing, it would not be a bad thing. Was her matchmaking intentional? His scalp prickled whenever he considered the question, which was not often; it made him uncomfortable.

Her methods were novel, but apparently effective, as far as he could tell in such a short period. If she were so accomplished at pulling the strings of virtual strangers, should he fear her? What games might she play with him—might already be playing? He shivered.

The question of intention took on a more unsavoury note when applied to the other _matches_ that seemed to be forming over tea and cake. The matrons appeared to find the company of Elizabeth's various creatives utterly fascinating, and not in the way Darcy had.

Mrs. Gibson's eyes had sparkled as she talked to the dashing Austrian musician Elizabeth had introduced her to on Friday, and the throaty laugh the woman had given at a seemingly bland statement had made Darcy cringe. It was a scene oft repeated that never failed to set Darcy on edge, though if he were wander into the drawing room at this very moment, Elizabeth, and perhaps his aunt, would appear none too bothered. Based on precedent, he might go so far to even describe them as complacent.

Thankfully, not everyone seemed to be part of these two related and yet disparate pageants. More often than not, Lady Matlock joined his wife for much of the calling hours. He had found it a relief when he could not be there to oversee the barely restrained chaos.

Darcy had previously noted that Elizabeth had also made a handful of what appeared to be genuine friends; mostly young married women like herself, with an occasional as yet unmarried lady or one of Lady Matlock's more open-minded contemporaries.

A tiny contingent of wealthy tradesmen's daughters and wives had come, but for the most part had gone away directly, and he could not discern if they made any subsequent visits. Darcy also understood that two older businessmen had come to pay their respects; he had been out, but it was one of the mornings Elizabeth had encouraged his sister to join her.

Georgiana was another factor that made his jaw twitch, the unease striking at odd times. His sister had requested that she be permitted to reschedule some lessons—or perhaps beg off a few—in order to spend more time participating in the calling hours.

In light of the compulsive shyness she had exhibited to date, he was, on the one hand, pleased to see Georgiana's enthusiasm, but conversely he would be lying if he claimed that the company did not engender misgivings.

Had she been a different girl, with a different history, he might have trusted her to dispassionately assess the people around her, fitting them into the framework of her life, and thus keep the boundaries of each association parallel to society's expectations. There was room for affection, or even love, in her choice of a future partner, but only amongst her relative equals. Even then, he would advise caution, lest she be taken in by a well disguised fortune hunter or a silver tongued rake in want of a compliant wife.

For Georgiana gave the illusion of compliance, of deferring to her guardians in matters of importance. She went to school without complaint, and it was only through a third party—Lady Matlock—that they discovered she had never desired to attend in the first place, and that her ostracism at the hands of the titled girls had left her deeply unhappy.

And then there was Ramsgate, a revelation. Once the fever of his anger had broken, Darcy had found himself able to look past the obvious cause—that blackguard Wickham—and apprehend Georgiana's culpability.

At how many points in the wooing could she have turned away his attentions? There was a great distance to be traversed between childhood acquaintance and passionate love, and many barricades in the form of propriety to prevent such an attachment. She could not have been ignorant of the ineligibility of George Wickham as a match. She must have known she had not been sent to the seaside to engage in an illicit romance. And yet, she had acted in a manner both reckless and duplicitous. He was relieved that she had confessed before she crossed the proverbial Rubicon, but she had also written him several letters which made no mention of Wickham and his attentions, though they had been ongoing at the time she put pen to paper.

That she had bemoaned her lack of perception was in no doubt. It was an important lesson delivered most cruelly, her suitor abandoning her upon learning that her dowry could be withheld by her brother. Georgiana's extended depression of spirits had worried Darcy greatly. He had hoped that this experience, painful as it had been, might help her approach her upcoming debut with a dash of cynicism and more faith in the teachings of her family. His wish appeared to have been gratified when, upon coming out of her fog of despair, Georgiana had expressed her intention to be guided by her brother in all things.

Yet, he found her to be acting in direct contravention to his strictures regarding her education but a few months later; neglecting important language lessons and concealing it from him whilst he was distracted with _other matters_.

Could he trust her in a room full of dashing artists? Just as penniless as that blasted Wickham but arguably with more substance and appeal?

Not born to wealth and privilege, would Elizabeth be sufficiently wary to the dangers posed to his charge? And even if she were, with such a full room could she adequately supervise and direct his sister? The slightly immoral air to the gatherings suggested not.

There were two courses of action available to him, neither of which would endear him to his womenfolk. As he saw it, he could either deny his sister's request out of hand, perhaps forbidding further forays into the forming salon altogether, or direct Mrs. Darcy to be more selective in the company she kept.

He was justifiably apprehensive about initiating the latter option.

The deluge of callers had not been their only social interaction since the night of his aunt's ball. Darcy eyed the large pile of invitations neatly stacked in the corner of his desk. No, they had attended dinners, musicales, and shared a memorable night to the theatre. That Elizabeth had acquitted herself to perfection on each and every occasion was indisputable. Darcy had felt taller walking into a room with his wife on his arm. She had drawn eyes, sometimes covetous, sometimes lustful, frequently curious, but the disapproval was dissipating. With Elizabeth's effortless welcoming manner, overlaid as it was with her fine wit, her talent for conversation, and her drawing room campaign, she was quickly gaining acceptance.

That was the rub, though. As she carved out her place in society she relied upon him less and less. The distance yawned wider at the end of each night, each event, and he was at a loss for a method of recovering that brief shining moment of intimacy, even though it had been based on dependence.

If he could be certain of but one thing, it would be that telling her to bar her friends from his house would not improve their marital felicity.

Uncharacteristic as it was, Darcy dithered. But the imperative for action had never been more apparent than the day prior, when Lord Byron had graced them with his presence.

They had not met often, but Darcy had never liked the man and long believed the feeling to be mutual, though neither was overt in their antipathy. Nevertheless, the man had appeared on his doorstep to wish him and his new bride well.

Even the memory made Darcy growl. Lord Byron had swanned in like he owned the place, bowing theatrically over his wife's hand and he'd even had the gall to place a lingering kiss on the bared skin of her knuckles. She had blushed very prettily while Darcy felt his face heat with anger.

That all the company had re-aligned themselves to orbit the fool had done nothing for Darcy's temper. His Lordship was intelligent, he could concede that much, but his conversation—thereby everyone else's conversation—had kept circling back to the same unpalatable point.

"We have devolved from the faithful reproduction of beauty to the butchering of the female form. The fashions can be tolerated, but this ideal of a preposterously wide expanse of chest, further emphasised by absurdly tiny feet and hands in painting makes my stomach turn," had said that swarthy Haygarth fellow.

Elizabeth had laughed at this, the delightful tone made up slightly for what followed. "As opposed to the fashions and the depictions of the generation prior?" she had said, her eyebrow raised. "Powdered wigs so voluminous as to snap one's neck? Skirts so wide as to prevent ladies from making it through the door except sideways? Stomachers tied so tight as to give even the most voluptuous girl the lines of a flat chested waif?"

Darcy had not been the only one caught by the pert response. Though, to his cynical eye, the way Lord Byron had looked at Elizabeth, with his eyes glazed, his lips parted, had been excessively exaggerated. Even though he was not of that illicit persuasion, Darcy could still recognise that rapture—no matter how contrived—looked well on the man, a conviction that had been confirmed when half a dozen feminine sighs had followed closely behind the breathy sigh of longing Lord Byron had emitted.

"Fashion is a cruel beast," Lord Byron had said, once he seemed to have recovered from his acute bout of adoration, Darcy had thought sourly. "I would rather render myself blind than presume to diminish your beauty through dress or brushstrokes. Perhaps you should shrug off these deprecating conventions for your wedding portrait and be captured in all the glory that God has decreed… you ought to have Mr. Etty here paint you."

The young artist had spluttered into his tea, his face taking on a dramatically red hue, reminiscent of boiled lobster. Elizabeth had merely pursed her lips and looked apologetically at Mr. Etty.

Darcy had quickly catalogued his previous conversations with the young man. _Did not his interests tend more towards historical scenes?_ Darcy had then said as much.

Mr. Haygarth had sniggered, earning a brief flash of consternation from Elizabeth, but it had been Lord Byron who answered, "Mr. Etty's great talent lies in painting flesh tones, a skill he employs in both his historical paintings and portraits. I must say, in either category, his nudes are exquisite, sublime even, there is no better hand to capture the classical unadorned beauty of a woman in bloom."

Darcy had felt his jaw tighten, it twitched again now in remembrance. How dare he? Here in his own home, practically announce a lewd interest in his wife! There was every chance that it was not just idle flattery either; how many married women had been lured by the Lord's dashing melancholy and supposed poetic brilliance?

Darcy had looked at Elizabeth to gauge her level of interest in the preening lordling, but her eyes had been affixed to him. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "I am all for the pursuit of truth and beauty in art, but to suffer for it? I think there must be boundaries. One such boundary that I must insist upon is remaining fully clothed in the winter months lest I catch a cold. A swollen red nose is becoming on no-one," she had said with an arched brow, which had been followed by a chorus of laughter.

And with that the talk had moved on to other less salacious topics. Toward the end of his call—that had already run over long—Lord Byron had brought up his soon to be published canto. "Oh my dear, tell me you like but one of my humble offerings or I will have to leave this house a broken man," he had said.

"Your vanity ought to be glutted with the praises of every maiden and fair widow the upper ten thousand has to offer. What difference can my praise make?" Elizabeth had replied.

"But your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning."

Elizabeth had leaned back in her seat at this, seeming to look Lord Byron over; speculation in her eyes. An infinitesimal shrug had lifted her shoulders before she said sweetly, "I will allow your grammar to be very good, although I find your predilection for hyperbole does not suit my sensibilities."

Darcy had taken some savage pleasure in the tittering that followed; firmly pressing his lips together to repress a smirk at the way the man had clamped his hands over his heart and groaned. But any lingering light of triumph had been instantly dispelled when Lord Byron had clutched Elizabeth's hand to his abused heart, before planting another kiss upon it, a kiss that had once again lingered.

A full day later, and the burn of jealousy had diminished but not abated. Were he to venture forth into that room again he would find another man fawning over his wife, no doubt offering her the pretty words he should have spoken in the weeks following their wedding. That she had to date thrown all such overtures back in each gentleman's face was an insufficient comfort.

Would there one day be a man to pierce through her afore unassailable morals and into her heart, just as his sister had thrown over all of her childhood teachings to follow Wickham's tune of seduction?

Darcy buried himself and his fears into his work, until the changing light in his study and general quiet in the house signalled that the guests had all departed. As he rolled his shoulders and stretched his back, a groan escaped his lips. Tonight was free of commitments beyond a quiet dinner with his sister and his wife. And if his luck was in ascension, a short interlude of privacy with his wife, an interlude that he hoped would not be marred by the discussion they must have.

In an uncharacteristically sensitive move, Darcy decided to seek her out rather than request her attendance in his study.

A sharp jab of disappointment made itself felt when he found the library absent his quarry, though a shawl thrown carelessly over a chair spoke of her recent presence, and the still hot tea service and a plate of biscuits of her intention to return.

Darcy drifted over to the low table adjacent to her obviously preferred seat and the neat tower of books situated on top. Curious, he picked up the five or so volumes, shuffling through them.

He first opened an anthology of John Donne, not perused for a decade and even then indifferently.

 _His chin, a thorny, hairy unevenness  
Doth threaten, and some daily change possess.  
Thy body is a natural paradise,  
In whose self, unmanured, all pleasure lies,  
Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou then  
Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?  
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows,  
And are as thieves traced, which rob when it snows. _

Frowning, Darcy placed the tome back on the table before opening another, even less familiar than the last, an embroidered placeholder directing his page choice.

 _For proof of this contention examine history:  
we all remember Helen,  
who left her family,  
her child, and royal husband,  
to take a stranger's hand:  
her beauty had no equal,  
but bowed to love's command._

 _As love then is the power  
that none can disobey,  
so too my thoughts must follow  
my darling far away:  
the sparkle of her laughter  
would give me greater joy  
than all the bronze-clad heroes_

If anything, his brows drew tighter together. He turned the book over in his hands, _Fragments of Sappho_ , the title read. As he began to sift through the rest, he heard the door click open. He stood still, barely even breathing, listening to her light footsteps get closer.

The tap of her advancing feet stopped. He turned slowly. The expression he was met with was difficult to decipher; her head was tilted to the side, her eyes were warm but her lips could be described as pouty.

Looking for something to fasten onto, he dropped his gaze to the book pressed against her chest, wrapped in her arms. Above and below the encircling limbs he could see a rich leather cover, the tips of letters written in gold and more gold embellishment around the edges in a classical style. Although his partial view prevented him from identifying the book specifically, he could readily recognise it as one of the more precious volumes contained in the family collection.

"Of course you could not have known, but we keep the first editions and rare manuscripts to the library… for their preservation…"

~~~v.-O-.v~~~

Elizabeth pulled the beloved copy of Herodotus tighter to her chest, her vision beginning to cloud. Her mind was a whirlpool with a liberal dose of confetti thrown in, the emotions flashed like many coloured pieces of paper; rage, sadness, fear, disappointment and grief.

As she took a deep breath, she found she could banish the fear, the rage, and some of the others too, but the disappointment lingered and swelled. She manipulated her heavy limbs into a shallow curtsey and tried to step around him but he caught her arm. And with that simple touch, neither forceful nor rough, her ire came pouring forth.

The flavour of her emotions must have shown on her face. She noted the way he shrank back, dropping her arm is if it had heated along with her temper.

"I thought when I suggested we speak of books in the library I might be treated to a discussion of our preferences, not another lecture. If that is your purpose in coming here I bid you good day, sir," she said, taking a step back.

She watched him reach out a well formed hand before letting it drop to his side again. "Forgive me," he said quietly and then nothing more.

It took several somewhat laboured breaths for him to continue, "I handled that poorly… forgive a man whose primary female interaction has been with a sister, a sister he has raised almost like a daughter. My intention was to speak to you, not to lecture… if you would grant me the pleasure of your company?"

She couldn't help put purse her lips. Yet another admission of wrongdoing, offered with every evidence of genuine regret, but with no accompanying apology, he was predictable but still wearying.

He must have taken her hesitation as agreement, for he sat down, eyeing her in such a manner that conveyed his expectation of her compliance. She took her own seat, laying Herodotus aside reverently and draping the shawl across her shoulders, letting the long ends fall across her chest.

Her husband leaned over and picked up the treasured book. Her first instinct was to snatch it back, but she merely clutched her hands in her lap. She watched him trace the cover and lettering with curiosity. He fingered the pages with respect, and yet watching him handle such a personal memento made her scalp itch.

Fortunately he offered up the book shortly thereafter. She murmured a quiet thank you and wrapped her fingers around it. Looking up she noticed him eyeing her with narrowed if not unfriendly eyes.

"That book is not from the library, is it?"

Tracing the cover of the book with her fingertips, she shook her head lightly. He let out a huff of air but she kept her eyes down.

"It is magnificently illustrated, I can see why you treasure it so."

She grimaced at his statement and felt her eyes roll. "Yes. I do like the pictures, both for their own merit and in so far as they support the story."

"You are the familiar with the classics then?" he asked; she wondered if he was teasing or if he was genuinely so thickheaded.

"I ought to be, as I was reading them but moments ago."

She doubted he was aware of the incredulous expression he wore. "You read Greek?"

"Indeed," Elizabeth said with a smirk. He looked at the stack of books at her elbow. "And Latin," she added, when it appeared he would say no more.

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his fingers kneaded his forehead. She braced herself for a lecture on appropriate pursuits for a lady, but instead he just looked up through his hair—which was getting a bit long—with a rueful smile.

Her breath caught involuntarily. It was surely just the surprise of seeing an expression so far removed from his anticipated response, nothing more, _wasn't it?_

"I have begun to realise how _little_ I know about my _little_ wife. I would like to attribute the appalling regularity with which I manage to put my foot in it to this lack… further I hope you will be gracious enough to share a small portion of your history with me, if for no other reason than to prevent my suffocating on my own poorly chosen words… We might start with how you learnt Greek and Latin?"

Her skin flushed. He was not looking away, and though his smile was wide, he swallowed as the seconds passed in silence.

"My father taught me."

Her husband nodded at this, then watched her expectantly. His attitude persisted, and she began to fiddle with the end of her shawl under his scrutiny.

"Unconventional, I know, but I think my father missed his intellectual pursuits and, without a suitable peer in learning about, he sought to train one."

Her husband sat up straighter before leaning back in the chair, completely at ease. The faint quiver in her stomach stilled when the predicted disapproval did not rain down.

"So he received a university education?"

Normally such a statement would ignite her temper, for of course her father had attended university. He was a gentleman and from a family of some importance in the area, but her husband had spoken with no disdain.

"Yes," she might have left it at that, but his expression of polite interest prompted her to add, "He was offered tenure in the classics department, I believe he was inclined to make his life at Oxford before circumstances intervened."

He finally did frown, but the expression had no heat, just mild confusion. "Why would he ever consider his place anywhere but upon his family estate?" he wondered out loud, but a pointed look in her direction indicated the question was not actually rhetorical.

Elizabeth shivered, pulling her shawl more tightly around herself. She contemplated how much she wished to relate. A good deal of it was mere conjecture, but even the bare facts painted her mother in a bad light and her father as a fool.

She took a deep breath.

"My father was not the first son, his older brother was disinherited. Grandfather Bennet's will was in favour of my father to the exclusion of all others."

Darcy whistled under his breath. "That would have caused a great to-do, I imagine."

"I understand it did, though of firsthand knowledge I have none… it was before I was born." She licked her lips, making a decision. "None of the family knew of the provisions of the will until it was read… even though it had been signed a twelve month before his passing."

"That would have been quite a secret for a country attorney to keep, being in close contact with someone whose circumstances are set to change so drastically, for ill or for good, depending upon the brother. I applaud his professionalism."

Elizabeth flinched but grasped her composure firmly.

The attorney who had drafted the will had had in his employ an ambitious young clerk, a clerk by the name of Phillips who was engaged to one of the Gardiner girls, a clerk who had since risen to take over the firm.

The specifics of her mother's ascent from Frances Gardiner, girl of inferior pedigree, to Mrs. Bennet, mistress of Longbourn, had always bothered Elizabeth. Her shoulders drooped as she shied away both mentally and physically from the unsavoury topic, it was not a confidence she wanted to share with an oft times antagonistic spouse.

The silence lengthened between them, her feet shuffled under the cloak of her skirt. It should not be this difficult; _he_ should not make it this difficult.

"My earlier mistake notwithstanding, please tell me, have you found the library to your liking?" he said.

She blinked her eyes; that had been surprisingly tactful.

She lifted a hand to tap at her lips. "You must be fishing for compliments, Sir… or rather trawling? I declare there to be no sport in it whatsoever, for who could in their right mind disapprove of your magnificent library?"

The smile that lifted his lips was warm like the fire. A small dimple appeared briefly in one cheek, before her eyes were drawn down to his hands, where his fingers traced first one thumb and then the other lightly.

"It is the work of many generations. I believe if I were to covet praise I would like it to be something of a more personal or… intimate nature," he said. His voice, infused with good humour, became husky on the last few words.

Elizabeth felt suddenly warm, and with equal abruptness she felt her heartbeat both increase in rapidity and volume. "Surely you must claim some credit? I noticed many newer volumes, and even apart from those, the preservation of the collection itself and the interests that support it must take some effort?"

His smile turned a bit rueful. "You shall praise me for lacking the skill to fritter away my family's colossal fortune? Next you will expound upon my startling ability to breathe in and out…"

Elizabeth shook her head. "Town abounds with costly fascinations for those with a fortune, no matter how great. I'll own that I do not know you well, but your avoidance of excess is something I believe I can admire. I also suspect it is not mere maintenance of your family's fortune that keeps you chained to that desk… raising it perhaps?"

And at that he loudly clapped his hands together like a snapping crocodile. "And I believe you have taken the hook, my dear!" he said laughing.

Though the heat in her face strongly suggested she was blushing yet again, she laughed along with him. His playful side was endearing and his expression very favourable.

Her husband pointed to the books on the table next to her and said, "Your little collection is completely devoid of any of my contributions, and I think the Woolstonecraft book is another of yours."

For the first time she realised that the order of the books had been altered. She considered some of the more expressive poems she had perused in recent days, and the thought of her husband reading—or knowing she had studied—them caused her to squirm.

"You are correct, though I am disappointed that your library did not boast such an important work." There was a hint of challenge in her voice.

"My father found her way of living objectionable."

"What bearing should that have on the value of the ideas contained or the artistry with which they are expressed?" she asked.

Darcy gave a sigh and waved his hand in a dismissive manner that immediately re-ignited her recently curbed anger.

"I did not say that I shared his sentiments, I merely explained why you have not found a copy in this room. Though I would like to qualify that I have read A Vindication of Women's Rights, and further that there is a copy of Mrs. Woolstonecraft's book in Pemberley's library."

"Oh," she said, acutely aware of the inadequacy of the sound as a statement or apology; it was met with a silence that lingered beyond comfort.

Mr. Darcy ran his hands through his hair, shedding his earlier flirtatious manner like a snake shrugging off its old unwanted skin. He muttered something under his breath—she suspected it may have even been a curse word—before he lifted his chin. That was where the tension started, or maybe it was his eyes. Nevertheless, the unpleasant stiffness slowly progressed down his body, his shoulders climbed, his fists clenched and he even widened his legs in a strange parody of a pugilist's stance for all that he was seated.

It was natural for her to brace herself also; it seemed their pleasantries had come to an end and that the quarrelling part of their programme had been reached. Well, quarrelling was the result when she challenged him, a lecture if she did not.

"Georgiana has requested that she be permitted to participate in the calling hours more frequently and for a longer duration."

That was all he said. Elizabeth gave a huff and then another. She touched the base of her neck briefly, then asked, "And what did you tell her?"

"I have told her nothing yet," he replied.

Her bafflement continued, he seemed unduly grim.

"I had some concerns I wished to discuss with you first," he continued. "About the company that she would be exposed to."

At this her eyes narrowed. _At least he is sensible of his own haughtiness_ , she thought uncharitably. But he also seemed so tense, so miserable bringing it up, that a sharp retort died on her lips.

She inclined her head for him to continue. With all the appearance of a cur on the edge of a whipping he said, "Your friend Lord Byron springs to mind."

She laughed. She bit her lip and then laughed again. "I would hardly call him a friend, and you need not worry yourself, I do not expect him to visit again."

He sagged against his chair momentarily, but ere long the resolved tilt of his chin was back. "Can you be sure?" he asked.

"Only as sure as his character can be read… You will forgive my candid assessment but I believe Lord Byron to be a very vain creature. I denied that all-pervasive vanity its praise, starving him of what he considers—rightly or not—his due. He has many admirers in town. He will not return."

"You do not favour him?"

She tilted her head sideways. "No, I do not. As I made quite clear during his visit, I believe."

Her husband exhaled in relief.

"I thought we were talking about Miss Darcy," she said levelly.

"I find myself concerned with the great number of men making themselves at home in my drawing room," he said.

Elizabeth could almost feel the tension thrumming through him. She inched forward in her seat until she could reach out and touch his arm. He seemed to melt into the whisper soft contact, and it stirred something deep inside her also, a fluttering that she did not wish to address now—or perhaps ever. She pushed the sensation away and instead focused on her words.

"It must be very frightening to you, to see the girl that you view almost as a daughter on the cusp of womanhood, but you must not hold too tightly. She is safe in our drawing room in a way she will not be once she is properly out in society. I will be present, her companion also, we can observe and direct her interactions. If you would permit her small follies now, you may prevent the greater disaster, which, I am sorry to say, is likely to result if you persist in sequestering her."

Her husband grabbed the hand still resting upon his arm and brought it to his lips. A warm shuddering breath ghosted across her knuckles making her shiver and then he kissed her hand in a way that made her ache. "Is that what I have done?"

She gently extracted her fingers, shaking her head, less in denial but more in the manner of clearing it. "You have not done anything yet, as far as I can tell. And I do appreciate your willingness to include me… in making decisions for your… well, our sister. I… it must be quite an adjustment… after so many years of acting alone."

His arms fell limply. She could not see his eyes, but every line of his face spoke of pain, a pain very disproportionate to their discussion.

"You may be correct, but what sort of guardian would I be if I did not worry to some degree? If I did not wish to shield her from the ugliness in this world?" said he with a doleful smile. "I see you did liberate a handful of treasures from the shelves. Tell me, are you a devotee of Saphho?"

His inflection was light and humorous again but there was an edge to his countenance. Her inclination was to oblige him in his desire to change the subject—as he had done earlier—but to make such a suggestion… even in jest…

"There is so little left of her writings and I daresay much has been lost in the passage of time, I find it very difficult to form an opinion," she said, waving her hand airily.

He did not seem to enjoy her attempt at levity, for his jaw had set hard, that little muscle in his cheek twitching.

"I would rather that Georgiana's learning and corresponding reading material err towards the traditional and it would please me if you did not expose her to your more _risqué_ literature, or more _risqué_ company," he said.

Her eyes narrowed even as she felt the blood rush to her face. "And we find ourselves back where we started," she said calmly, though it was a paper thin veneer over her turmoil. "Why not let her learn more of the expressions of love from the safety of the written word? One cannot elope with a book…"

"Books can provide ideas, dangerous ideas that just may take hold in the fertile mind of a young girl, ideas that may blind her to what is right, ideas that may lead her into temptation and set a course of misery to persist for the rest of her life. The same can be said of the examples laid out for display in your engineered tête-à-têtes," he said scathingly.

His chest was rising and falling with heavy inhalations and stuttering exhalations. _Would it be wise to match fire with fire?_ Slowing her own breathing, she waited for him to calm.

After a time his breathing was almost apace with hers. His knuckles were still white as they gripped the arms of his chair, his face was pinched, but it had lost that frightening colour.

"Those are valid concerns," she said and watched his head snap up in surprise. "But a lack of knowledge can also lead to foolhardy decisions. In a society presided over by one such as our Prince Regent, excessive innocence can be nothing but a liability. She ought to be made aware of a wide variety of the permutations of love, perhaps educated in the difference between love and desire, or the merits of congenial companionship that breeds contentment rather than a wild passion that can over time spawn contempt—and thus lead to temptation in some cases."

"Do you deny that you enable those who may wish to succumb to such dalliances?"

She winced. "I facilitate good conversation, if the parties take their association from intellectual to immoral, that is between them and God."

Elizabeth felt tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. It was a tight rope she walked, courting the approval of those she did not approve of, whilst trying to retain some thread of connection between those she knew before and who she was before her marriage. Her choices were not perfect, they never could be. Georgiana had every possibility open before her, if she could but exercise some discernment, and if Elizabeth could simply keep to her role.

Even before her marriage Elizabeth's choices were very limited, a vulgar mother and no dowry saw to that. She had eschewed a wild intemperate passion and resigned herself to life as a spinster before her great accident. She would wish for Georgiana to have the best, but she knew that with great opportunity came great risk. "Might I suggest a compromise?" she said.

He gave a slight—almost imperceptible—nod, and yet his crossed arms demonstrated his inclination to resist.

"What if we agreed in advance upon the books I might include in her reading list? And if we could discuss what she has read together? After dinner perhaps? Would it grieve you greatly if we reduced our evening engagements? Leaving an evening or two per week for family dinners at home?" she asked in measured tones, albeit at a halting pace.

"It would not grieve me in the least," he said with a smile, before quickly pushing his features back into neutrality.

"And the rest of the plan?"

Her husband tapped his fingers against a knee. His expression was tight and his eyes were turned inward, but he was also nodding absently; a good sign. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of his masculine intonation Elizabeth heard soft chimes announcing the hour.

"We best get ready for dinner," he said.

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 **Once again, very sorry for the delay. I loved all the encouragement you gave in my long absence, please tell me what you thought of the new chapter in a review.**


	14. A Fit Of Pique

**Another month, another chapter.**

 **My yard is now secure so I have the option of kicking the kids out to play when I want to get housework and writing done. Mmmmmmm writing.**

 **Of course, now that we have felled the ugly and one dangerous tree in there, I also have to start searching the web for plantings. I see wonderful gardens around and think, "I want that!" but I really dislike gardening, so it will be mostly natives for me and a few hardy fruit varieties. Anyone who has a mature Lilly Pilly in the Sunshine Coast area that they want taken away please let me know.**

 _Copyright © 2017 Felice B. This story, the author notes and comments are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned._

 **This chapter goes out to a very special reader who has been with me since the early days, you know who you are. Please stay as positive as you can through treatment, I am thinking of you.**

 **I know this author note is getting very long but my Beta love goes out to Lenniee, Skydreamer, Pimprenelle, Dr. Breifs Cat, and the ever stylish Miss Phryne Fisher.**

 **Now, read, read, read. And review, review, review… Please…**

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"Dare we decline such an invitation?" Elizabeth asked. She tried to keep her irritation from seeping into her voice, but judging by the rigid set of her husband's shoulders, she was rightfully unconvinced of her success.

"You need not write the reply, I shall attend to it," her husband stated, and yet he put his pen down. The quill bore his intense scrutiny for a moment or two before he pushed to his feet, vacating his desk, and made his way over to the window.

Elizabeth reached across the expanse of mahogany, lifting up the missive he had summarised rather than read like the others.

An elegant feminine script met her eyes. At first glance the contents were all very commonplace; the details of a ball, a gracious request for their presence. Commonplace that is, except for a small postscript, written in an obviously different hand and cramped into the small space at the bottom.

She glanced at her husband's back before squinting at the close lines.

 _Darcy, we were friends once and could be so again if you would but allow bygones be bygones. I would apologise for the long ago incident but that would be accepting a level of responsibility at odds with the events. I shall say I regret what happened, that I would wish for your society and I urge you to accept our invitation. My sister is long married and in the final stages of her confinement, so you need not fear her presence at the ball. Please come. –A F Osbourne_

Elizabeth bit her cheek. Moving slowly, she slipped the piece of paper back into its former position—or as near enough as she could approximate—then brushed her hands off on her skirts.

She could feel a blush forming as he turned from the window, but he did not seem to note anything amiss when he returned to his seat.

She watched him take a deep breath. He had his hands clasped firmly in front of him and he seemed to be bracing himself, as if she would forcibly extract a tooth were he to dare open his mouth. In light of the postscript, it would be a confidence rather than a tooth that would be torn from him, but nevertheless most unwillingly.

"The-Dixons-have-invited-us-to-dine-that-evening," she said in a rush, then frowned.

A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Loath as I am to deflate your enthusiasm, I would rather not accept the Dixons' invitation to dine." His eyes were no longer focused on her but clearly turned inward as he continued, "I do not object to the Dixons themselves, but it is almost certain some members of the Harris family will be in attendance, and with them I will not pretend a cordiality or even basic civility so opposed to my true antipathy."

She was expecting a haughty face to accompany this pronouncement but mostly her husband appeared sad, hurt even.

Elizabeth searched for something to say. Her stomach fluttered as she groped for words. The silence stretched as did her reality. _Mr. Darcy, as the wounded party?_ The letter hinted as much with regards to the Osbournes, and his overall demeanour obliquely indicated something along a similar vein with the Harris family.

 _The villain become victim_ , but even within the walls of her own mind she knew she was being unfair. Mr. Darcy had been a near constant attendant throughout the Matlock ball and all events following. He had been genial with her friends when they came to call. He had expressed some trepidation about said company, but she could not fault his intent, even though his degree of concern for Georgiana would be deemed 'overprotective' by most.

In recent days the only fresh charge he had incurred was his rather insensitive statements regarding her reading material and that oafish comment he made about _her_ book being restricted to the library.

But then, weighed against the whole sum of their short marriage… no, she could not find it within herself to feel sorry for him.

"What kind of girl is Mr. Osbourne's sister and what is the nature of your relationship with her?"

Her abrupt statement moved him to wide eyed shock but, surprisingly, not anger. Or perhaps that was not accurate. His jaw was working and his features had become flushed; he might not have reacted in anger, but he was battling with some strong emotion, she was sure.

When he spoke it was in a tone that was indisputably controlled but likewise not truly hostile. "I once counted Arthur Osbourne among my closest friends, that is until his sister set her sights on becoming mistress of Pemberley. She did not see morals—or even modesty at its most basic—to be an impediment to her goals."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, his conceit had put her back on familiar ground. "Did she gift you too many compliments? Or was it a matter of her incessant hovering driving away other prospective lovers?"

Her husband dragged a hand down his face wearily. "Miss Osbourne saw fit to breach my private chambers while I was a guest in her brother's house…. I feel compelled to add that I offered her no encouragement—explicit or implied—that could excuse such an action."

Elizabeth looked away, and swallowed around a lump in her throat.

"I would not cut a friend for the conduct of an adult sibling. But in this situation, when confronted with the scandalous behaviour of his sister, Mr. Osbourne was more incredulous at my unwillingness to oblige him in taking either of his unmarried sisters off his hands than at Miss Osbourne's gross invasion of my privacy."

"And the Harrises?"

"A less salacious, but more persistent matter." He sighed. "Apparently the Harris family deemed two dances with their daughter—even spaced a month apart—and one visit to the family box at the opera sufficient to signal an impending proposal, and attempted to impugn my honour when no such offer was forthcoming."

She nodded, not so much in agreement but to acknowledge that she was listening.

"Were the ladies so objectionable?"

Finally her husband emitted a growl that made her jump. "That is not the point! They sought to take away my autonomy in what was arguably one of the most important decisions of my life. I could forgive a man for trying to cut my purse a dozen times easier. There is always more money to be had, but a wife… a wife is the only one you shall have."

She had no notion of what to say, or if there was anything to be said. A number of stinging retorts crowded to the tip of her tongue. She suspected he had _had_ women before, matrimonial status notwithstanding. And did he have no concept of the lack of autonomy women faced? Was it so very terrible to have independence in all other things but be imposed upon in the matter of a life partner? Her heart was racing and her mind was whirling apace.

For the second time in as many minutes she jumped when he spoke. "If you wish to pursue a closer acquaintance with the younger Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, might I suggest you invite them to share our box at the theatre? I am happy to extend the invitation to the elder Dixons, though I daresay only Mrs. Dixon will accept, and I am amenable to Miss Cochraine being a member of the party too and her parents to round things out. Should the Harrises make a fuss about not being included in the invitation, in light of the intimate party and limited seating, I cannot see anyone judging us poorly for it."

"Why go to so much trouble? Are the Dixons so influential?" she tested.

He gave a rueful laugh. "I noticed that you have always got on very well with Mrs. Dixon when she has come to call. And of the little contact I have had with Mr. Rupert Dixon, I have always found him to be a pleasant and interesting enough fellow."

This made Elizabeth blush. "I think a night at the theatre with the Dixons would be most pleasant, thank you."

His responding nod was perfunctory. Taking a fresh sheet of paper he scratched out a few lines with his quill, then dipped the pen again before signing with a flourish. His lips had curled again into a mildly satisfied smirk and the way his eyes glittered made her suspect there was some maliciousness contained in the missive.

Placing it to the side to dry, he then reached for another small stack of open letters. "We have a number of options for the 17th. My preference is to attend the musicale hosted by Lord and Lady Calvern, though I would not be adverse to Mrs. Whitechester's invitation to dine."

He slid the small hoard over to her and she began rifling through the invitations. A rather ostentatious sheet caught her eye.

"You will not consider the Murbers' at home? I would think, if you are so adverse to a real party we ought to retreat to the country and be done with it."

The pithy words were out of her mouth and beyond her ability to retract. She curled her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. He might have some sort of sordid history with the Murbers, how was she to know? He had just confided in her, even if it had begun unwillingly, and she had rewarded him with insolence.

When she finally dared look at him she found an eyebrow raised, but the most eye-catching feature on his face was a sly smile.

"I cannot deny that Pemberley is my favourite place, but even I could come to hate it if I were confined there year in year out without reprieve. I do not object to extended stays in town, nor to socialising. But I _do_ object to at homes. Their definition of success is to create a terrible crush where one can neither obtain refreshment nor escape the clutches of those they would hope to avoid. I liken the experience to wading through spoiled molasses."

He shook his head and a frown overtook his features. "And furthermore, Lord Murber is a complete _rake_ , who likes the company of _rakes_ , who in turn prefer the company of _loose women_. I would rather not rub up against Lord Murber's guests nor put you into such confined contact with them either."

Elizabeth felt suitably chastised, and was quiet through the remainder of their meeting. She did not dare dispute any of his choices, just bobbing her head minutely to indicate assent. She scrutinised her hands, the section of desk in front of her and the odd invitation her husband handed her. She did not look at him.

When she heard him get up she hoped it might finally be time to make her escape, but a peek through her lashes showed he was just retrieving more letters. His feet did not lead him back to his former seat though, instead he came to stand in front of her.

Feeling nearly as silly for her continued avoidance as she had for her verbal transgressions, she straightened her spine and brought her head up slowly, taking in his boots, lean legs and his relaxed poise propped against the desk. His face, however, was not so relaxed, but neither was it angry. If she were, on pain of death, forced to guess the emotion written on his countenance she would define it as primarily anxious with a dash of hopefulness.

Leaning forward, his hip lost contact with the desk as he handed her two sealed letters. All the invitations that had come before had already been opened, she thought, setting her teeth on her bottom lip. She ran her eyes over the direction of each, and occupied by her bewilderment seemed to miss all but snippets of what he was saying.

" _...Business… hoped…sometime... remain here… would oblige..."_

"Am I not permitted to read my correspondence in privacy? You cannot mean to insert yourself into all of my affairs, you must have more pressing matters to attend to," she said sharply.

His brows came down and his lips flattened. She quivered a little when she saw that telltale muscle in his jaw begin to twitch again.

"You deliberately misunderstand me. I did not say you _must_ read your letters here, I only _requested_ that you do."

"Oh," she said.

"I merely wish for your company, even if it is passive."

Her cheeks burned, but there was an equal amount of confusion to her embarrassment. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it.

"Very well," he said coldly.

"I had not… I was not… I might need to get a heavier shawl." And now she had trapped herself. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Her husband did not catch the move, looking as he was at a nearby sofa rather than at her.

A glance to the door and then he was walking over to the sofa. Pushing it with limited success, her husband changed tack, pulling the heavy item closer to the fire. Elizabeth winced at the bunched state of the clearly expensive carpet, even more precious for being one of the few tasteful items she had noted in the home. But Mr. Darcy seemed supremely satisfied with himself.

He gestured to the sofa expansively. "You should be warm enough, but I shall ring for someone to fetch your shawl and some tea and biscuits besides, do you have a preference?"

"In biscuits?"

"Yes."

Now on her feet, halfway betwixt the sofa and the door, she considered him, wrinkling her nose. What could he mean by such a request? She had calls she ought to return, menus to plan and dozens upon dozens of invitations she must personally decline. She could not even bear to think of the great task of redecorating the townhouse, though she knew it was an embarrassment to the whole family. And he wanted her to… loll about like some pet? A creature without occupation beyond ornamentation!

Her belly was full of flames. "A man as wealthy as you ought to be able to afford the finest hounds for passive company, as you call it, and need not to resort to have a wife lounging around, reading while you work."

"I do have a fine kennel but none of my bitches can read."

Her gasp was deafening. His dimple disappeared, quickly followed by the rest of his smile, a smile that might have been described by some as playful. Mr. Darcy lifted his hands, keeping them open, palms facing outward.

"I appreciate that you must also have tasks, but you must read your letters sometime, why not read them here… with me?" His voice went gravelly at the last. He also reached down, curling a hand underneath her own, to tickle her palm with his fingertips. Her breath caught. When had he moved so close?

Intertwining his fingers with hers, he led her over to the sofa and ushered her to sit down before gently disengaging.

It seemed he was instantly back at his imposing desk, seated and deeply absorbed in his work. Whereas she gazed between the hand he had touched and the letters, her breathing still shallow, which must account for the strange lightheadedness she suffered.

The first letter was from her mother. Elizabeth winced before glancing at Darcy out of the corner of her eye. She counted her limited exposure to Mrs. Bennet one of the greatest benefits of her forced evictions from her family home, but this same lack of exposure went hand in hand with a lack of tolerance.

For all that the missive was sealed, what it contained was no great mystery. There would be deprecations of Elizabeth's character aplenty, followed by insincere apologies; for she would not have to scold if Elizabeth would but do her duty to her family. The prescribed duty was to bring a sister to town, Lydia most usually, 'for surely such a lively girl as dear Lydia could net a man at least as rich as your Mr. Darcy and likely with a title thrown into the pot'. Such utter idiocy was easily ignored. The entreaties to bring Jane to town were far more insidious.

Was Jane as disconsolate as Mrs. Bennet claimed? There was little evidence of it in the few short letters she had had from her eldest sister, though the very dispassionate way she described Mr. Bingley's leave taking—or lack thereof—might be more telling than any embellished expressions of woe. Had he returned to Netherfield?

Skimming the letter revealed it to be more drivel on the subject of Lydia coming to London; Elizabeth should have followed her first impulse and thrown it in the fire unopened. She gave a huff.

Her husband's head shot up. He regarded her for a moment, a slow lazy smile making its way onto his face, stopping just short of dimpling, and the expression seemed to hold when his attention returned to his work.

Putting the offensive letter down, she briefly wrapped one arm around her waist, pulled her shawl tight and tried to still the creeping sensation that had come over her. Positioned with a full view of her husband, she likewise had nowhere to hide.

The second letter boasted an equally familiar, and yet far more welcome, hand. It brought a smile to Elizabeth's face and a lightness to her heart as she broke the seal, a sensation that was not to last beyond the first line of Mary's missive.

 _Dear Sister,_

 _Forgive me for dispensing with the polite preliminaries. I am to be married._

Elizabeth squinted at the page for some moments, her fingers resting against her lips, until assured that it was indeed not a trick of the light.

 _Fear not, the match, should it come to pass, has not been the result of any coercion or scandal, though there has been scandal aplenty since we made our engagement public. Rather than talking in riddles, let me begin from the beginning._

 _I need not ask if you remember Samuel Lucas, though you may wonder at my knowing of your association with him._

 _The summer following your much talked about defection from Longbourn, Mr. Lucas came to my attention. Unable to separate fact from fiction with regards to the many tales told about your departure, he appealed to me to know the truth of your absence. Not seeing what his connection was to the matter, I told him, in language none too gentle, to see to his own affairs._

 _He was persistent in his pursuit of the particulars and had determined that I was the best source of reliable and complete information. I understand that Jane had told him you had gone away to school, when he enquired why, all she said was "By coach."_

 _Eventually I relented and shared with him some of the goings on at Longbourn. Over the course of the summer we became friends. I learnt how you often stole away to walk together when he was home from school and I returned to him some of the books he had lent you at your last meeting._

 _I learnt of his home life, under the yoke of Lady Lucas, and thus how much we had in common._

 _Friends we remained through subsequent summers, until we found ourselves to be more than friends._

 _We did not delude ourselves to think that there would not be opposition to our match, so decided to keep our understanding a secret until he was further along in his studies and in a position to support a wife._

 _The best-laid plans of mice and men… We had intended to wait a year more, but Lady Lucas was determined to see him married to a Miss Padstone—a guest of the Shaws—with her pretty face and very pretty dowry. I am not ashamed to admit I did fear that Lady Lucas would carry the day, despite Mr. L's frequent assurances to the contrary._

 _Lady Lucas is a devious creature; we should count ourselves lucky that mama does not have one tenth her guile. The pair were thrown together with such frequency and strategy that the talk around the neighbourhood began to almost accept the match as a foregone conclusion._

"Not bad news I hope?"

Elizabeth looked up. Against all expectations, she had forgotten her husband was in the room. Her hand resting on her rapidly beating heart. "I can hardly tell," she said honestly.

He made to get up, but she waved her hand, flapping the letter along with it. The inner page fell to the floor. Like rushing water, her husband slipped effortlessly around his desk and onto one knee to retrieve the page. He did not retreat after his act of chivalry, but upon surrendering the page, laid an impossibly warm hand on her knee.

His hand seemed to be burning a hole through her dress. She took a deep breath to gather her wits. What was the hand of a man—fully clothed—on her own equally encased leg? Nothing… especially in light of the intimacies they had shared. The hand seemed to burn hotter when she thought about their wedding night. But in the usual mode of such recollections, that night was quickly eclipsed by the acts that had followed.

She shrugged his hand off to the best of her ability, limited as she was by their positioning. Fortunately he seemed to take the hint, lifting the offending appendage. His face darkened momentarily but ere long was arranged back into an expression of earnest solicitude.

"My sister is to be married," she said when he had not moved, still looking at her in that sympathetic yet still expectant manner.

What passed over his features following her statement was even stranger. A flare of triumph smothered quickly by him running a weary hand over his face and then a resigned nod.

"When is the wedding?" he asked.

"I have not gotten that far yet."

"I suppose you will wish to attend."

She looked at him with her head cocked to the side. Could it be some sort of trap? "I expect I shall… but from what I have read so far, whether the wedding will in fact go ahead is in some doubt. In most circumstances I enjoy Mary's sequential writing style but in this instance I would rather her get to the point."

"Regarding Miss Bennet's engagement?"

Elizabeth jerked her head back. "No, her own."

He looked down, and their respective positions prevented her from reading his expression. When he got to his feet it was decidedly blank, and remained so when he resumed his business.

Not inclined to waste more energy trying to follow her husband's moods, she instead followed his good example and returned to her letter.

 _Mr. L found the idea of injuring his own reputation and that of Miss Padstone through his inaction unconscionable and acted to make our prior attachment known._

 _Papa was applied to first, once his consent—or indifference—was confirmed we presented our intentions to the rest of our families. Strange as it may seem, Mama was opposed to the match at first, citing our connection to the house of Darcy as a basis to look higher. Her enthusiasm only blossomed once she apprehended just how vehemently opposed Lady Lucas was to our match._

 _Heated words were exchanged while Papa laughed in the background and poor Sir William wrung his hands nearly clean off in distress._

 _Lady Lucas has declared her intention to disinherit Mr. L in favour of master James. A more stupid idea can hardly be conceived. Though the boy is not yet fourteen, he is a simpleton if I ever saw one._

 _Sir William—to whom the decision actually belongs—has of yet been silent._

 _Mama declares that without the means to support a wife the engagement must be ended. Papa is also silent._

 _The only male relative who has spoken up is Uncle Phillips, and what surprising things he had to say._

 _In a private audience with Mr. L and myself he claimed himself moved by our plight and proposed a mutually beneficial arrangement, should the worst happen and my intended lose his prospects._

 _Aunt Phillips, he said, resembles Mama in more than her love of gossip. Her inability to economise is something he has come to expect from his wife, but with a firm hand it has caused him little grief since the early days of their marriage, but nevertheless the propensity is still there. None of this was news to me, but I was curious how this related to myself and Mr. L._

 _Uncle purposed that he sponsor Mr. Lucas in the final year of his education and upon completion take him on as a clerk with the view to him eventually taking over the practice. Shocked, I said that if Uncle Phillips had tired of his profession, his business would probably fetch a handsome price._

 _He qualified that he was not done with the Law just yet, but that he worries about our aunt. It would seem he does not trust her to see to her own affairs in the event of his demise. If we were to take over the business we would also be charged with caring for and seeing to Aunt Phillips, an obligation both moral and legal._

 _His reasoning in trusting us over and above some sort of trustee was quite complimentary and has given us much to think about._

 _For myself…_

A warmth spread through Elizabeth's entire body and she felt her eyes prickle with tears. There was a great satisfaction in someone recognising Mary's worth, two people actually. And an even greater satisfaction in seeing someone stand up to the combined threat of Lady Lucas and Mrs. Bennet, the dragons of her own childhood. Mary was not exceptionally clever, nor beautiful, and her kindness could be quite blunt, but she was a good person. The light feeling made her want to laugh out loud and babble like a child.

The feeling evaporated like water on hot sand when she realised she had no-one to share this revelation with. Divided from her sisters except by the written word, unsure where Cassandra was or when she might arrive and separated most cruelly from her beloved aunt and uncle by oceans, she felt utterly alone.

… _I know that I do not have any great beauty, or intellect, or fortune to my credit. That Mr. L chose me is a miracle that will sustain my gratitude always. I have no intention of crying off, but I am not insensible of the potential cost of his choice and my holding him to that choice. I will be the most dedicated and loving wife that ever was, and even should the worst happen, make it my mission to ensure he does not regret his choice for even a single day._

 _When I have further news I shall write you._

 _Your Sister Always,_

 _Mary Bennet._

Her eyes swam as the weight of the last weeks pressed upon her. As if drawn by a magnet, her eyes sought her husband once again, though she was looking less at him but at what he represented. In a country beleaguered by a protracted war even a mediocre heir like Samuel Lucas, with his small estate, gaggle of dependants and ties to trade, could still have his pick of ladies. What prospects and expectations had her husband had?

Lowering the letter slightly Elizabeth focused on Mr. Darcy's direction. A mere cursory glance would determine him to be once again dedicated to his task, his lips were puckered somewhat, his brow furrowed also. But it was his eyes that gave away his preoccupation. As she studied him, Elizabeth could see that they were not moving over the paper he stared at, instead they seemed far away.

Mary claimed she would spend the rest of her days diligently seeing to her husband's happiness. Had she done anything of the sort for Mr. Darcy? Certainly she had acquitted herself well in a social sense, but she could not deny avoiding his disdain had motivated her more than any idea of his happiness. She could also another sizeable share of her diligence to the burning desire to prove him wrong.

In private she had intentionally attempted to wound him with words on more than one occasion. She had recently denied him the succour of her body—easily substituted for a man of his status—but more damaging, her abstinence prevented him from attaining the one thing only she could provide… a legitimate heir.

He was handsome, rich and had not inconsiderable social standing. Why had he married her? And why had she never considered the question?

The scandal of their embrace, so damaging to her reputation, would have been but a small footnote in the story of his life. A season of whispering, if word of the incident reached town, and by the next winter he would be a celebrated bachelor once again, while she, and all her unmarried sisters, would have been ruined.

As her aunt had said, the worst he could have done was to walk away. Why had he taken her as his wife? Was he so bound by the unenforceable concept of honour? Why had he treated her so poorly in the beginning of a union that had been within his power to avoid?

She could not distract herself for long, the much more confronting questions clamoured to be heard. She reeled under their onslaught. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

Elizabeth knew she had captured the attention of the other occupant of the room, her skin prickled with awareness. But once again she could not support the idea of meeting his eyes. Not yet. A final deep breath and then…

"You may come to me tonight."

* * *

 **And let the reviews rain down.**

 **I promise I did not do this to be mean. It was just the natural break in the chapters. Please don't flame me!**


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